When you swap
your emotions with red moon,
my poem bleeds.
A huge graffiti becomes
visible, when dark clouds
gather for the gossip.
In absenteeism,
you were the sharpest pain
of my pen.
A purple smoke was
rising again, without―
a flame. One beat skips
and hundred blames come.
You don't speak
your mind. Pure faults go
unnoticed. The conversation
drops between two blades
of grass. Magenta
moon drips.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 11th, 2021 19:45
- Category: Nature
- Views: 23
Offline)
Comments1
'a tale of relationship's discourse between our perceived course of life and that fate - waiting, to trip us off-course and on to the track that's just right, for us..
important to acknowledge all the participants when we remember disagreements, one side
seldom has all the answers'..
a great read! (sorry if I've misinterpreted your words dear poet)
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