Talking of the character
and morality, a smoke
rises. To arms.
Butterflies, and
waterfalls. I stand between
the two to take a
look at the last clouds.
On the date palms
my future lives. The pinnate pair
rips apart the poems
of merciless summer.
Burning hands will-
pick up the dented heart.
No more blood was left
in the twisted veins.
Coming out of the woods,
I hand over my moons
to you, for a blue kiss.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 20th, 2021 21:57
- Category: Nature
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: A Boy With Roses
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