After euthanasia,
I was conversing with a ghost.
Foam-born, he
wanted to shrink in a ring.
To cause harm―
a knife, apologizes,
for playing with fire.
That is the life,
of a mortal― to keep his
god, as a prisoner
of books.
And yet, you are called
a great warrior of words.
In your prime flight,
when the sun is setting,
you want to drop dead
like a sparrow, on eternal greenness
of silence.
The horses run in full alacrity.
- Author: satishverma ( Offline)
- Published: December 3rd, 2019 19:06
- Category: Nature
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
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