Once a while you eat
yourself. You come swaying like rain
drops. Must you stay in my eyes?
The art of slaying is done.
Blood starts flowing in the river. The trash
hangs on the wall. Spiders move.
The drama begins. No
curtains. Meaning is not clear. One
should draw a line before the sun rises.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 12th, 2021 19:55
- Category: Nature
- Views: 31
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments1
Amen!
(only - for me, its not the Time
that does us harm
its our needlessly cynical ability
to procrastinate
and waste, our very gift: of breath)
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