Cleaning the Augean
stables, I was going
to punish myself.
A soldier of your conscience
you will not commit
suicide for the sake of heaven.
History repeats itself.
There was no waiting
to open the morgue and
search your cadaver.
A burnt out stigma
still spreads the incense.
Blackbirds fly in unison.
A crepe bandage
was not sufficient to alleviate
the pain of centuries.
I am still asking
myself to receive a gift
of poverty.
Truth has lost its glitter.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 1st, 2021 20:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
oh Guru of my Poetic dreams, once more you share your guiding work's of wisdom, freely and distilled/worded accessible enough, so even the likes of me can understand...
what a gift you wield dear Poet, thank you!
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