You are pinned on the
board to don the cap of watchman.
Jasmines go nomads.
To alter the nomenclature
of pain, to take a nap in the rose
garden. You cannot move a mouse.
Violets are raising hands.
The voices are dim. It is getting
dark. Two small eyes roam.
- Author: satishverma ( Offline)
- Published: August 2nd, 2021 19:42
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.