If you touch
slightly drunk moon,
at the sill of window, you will
alter the moon of November.
I wait for the earthquake to begin.
The carpenter had promised
to deliver the rocker tonight.
I will make friends
with dark room.
Your hands start shaking
holding a glass―
half-full.
Time to shut the doors.
- Author: satishverma ( Offline)
- Published: June 26th, 2020 19:50
- Category: Nature
- Views: 3
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.