Say something
on this crucial moment,
standing near the funeral home.
My gods were dead.
Last night I had
left the bed on the call of―
mountains― where I had to
climb back to my final abode.
Any poem in September
was worthy of the rewrite
in rainy day of mourning.
One by one the―
fruits fall. You unwrap
the kernels to bring out
the shiny seeds. One day they will
become the tallest trees.
Friends and foes.
I rise and
become a pagoda.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 8th, 2020 18:56
- Category: Nature
- Views: 35
- User favorite of this poem: Daydream Believer.
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Comments2
I really enjoyed your words on grief and the journey it can take you on. A wonderful write
The climb to one's final abode; how intriguing! Most ordinary mortals like me see the journey to the final abode as a descent. Profound write.
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