A bohemian moon
was following me,
playing in the hands
of dark night.
Man's marrow, the
essence of truth,
drips from the wordless
poem.
Hanged from the
gate, a wreath of capsicums
and citruses to ward off
the evil eyes.
You avoid the debate.
I wanted the perfect answers.
Wearing a hawthorn crown
does not make a Christ.
Every religion has its own pain.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 29th, 2020 20:17
- Category: Nature
- Views: 13
Offline)
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