Let it be,
you don't engage in dispute
with me, to make us complete
and whole.
Sharp stings leave
my skin singed. Barehanded
I will fight with a
hollowed tiger.
A dark fear still hangs
on the milked mind. The tunnel
was unlit. You wanted
to become a white god.
The dead wine spills
from the ceramics. With feet
of clay you run very fast
to catch your shadow.
One day you will
walk in, to take revenge
on kismet and blend with me.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 31st, 2020 19:36
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
- User favorite of this poem: RiverJordan.
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