For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.
You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.
You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.
On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.
Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 19th, 2019 19:43
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
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