There was something
between the lips.
You will not recite my name.
A muted word―
becomes a psalm at
execution. There was no
crowd to witness the grace.
If I prepare a book of
all my defeats, would you
write obituary.
The antiquities had become
alive. This was the beauty
of lunacy.
And the saint was dead
without meeting his god.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 31st, 2019 20:50
- Category: Nature
- Views: 22
Offline)
Comments1
Not a book of defeat, but the book where u tried and tried till you were the best.
Great piece 👍
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