Listen,
take your call.
You can smell the
musk of a wandering deer.
Retrieve,
the lost soul of
the wounded age. Ravens
are increasing in number, waiting.
The grace,
disappearing fast. The
random silence, in terrible
commotion, remains unheard.
I step outside,
my body, my thoughts,
on flat earth. You touch
a poet's dilemma.
On your bones,
lies a small bundle
in white, of the future
child― stillborn.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 15th, 2020 19:42
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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