I have nothing to do.
Nothing to rewrite my agony, Trying
to pre-empt death.
Of a curated gospel.
Now the knowledge has no value
to walk on the moon.
I am, what I didn't
want to be, standing under the
weeping willow. The end will come?
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: August 11th, 2021 21:55
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.