Street-the evil incarnate
runs after the people. I stay in smoke
to hide the pain of candle in wind.
I feel uneasy. Listen
to earth. Who was crying? I accost the moon.
I have to say something in the fog.
Bilberries leave the marks.
Your eyes are brown. Gold fishes swim.
I peel off my skin to see your face.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 24th, 2021 20:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 25
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments1
(such a brilliant poem: Guru;
forgive me, I just had to try and respond
however inadequate my words may read
aside - your poetic genius)..
those symbolic Bilberries of yearned-for, modest perfection
do indeed stain our legacies
churn our guts, till our eyes: glare Green
and somewhere in that mirage of our shadow's shed
we awaken, a small sprouting of hope
accustomed to aiming low, for being planted
in a world with diminishing light: to begin with...
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