Becoming Strangers

satishverma

I was rearranging
the things, in order
as if I will come back.

Ah! Life has
lynched my poems. I
feel― I cannot write
something beautiful.

A frenzied mob
calculates your height
and starts stoning at
an erect totem.

The hardened rocks were
melting without fire
to submerge you and your
castle made of clay.

At sunset-point you
reach to stand in twilight
to morph into an alien!

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: December 23rd, 2020 20:34
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 24
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Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    and behold: you can write again... lol
    Happy holidays dear Poet



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