Mythical Thoughts

satishverma

The senile dust,
which rises between us,
makes me sick.

I cannot stand
the mood swings of
aging moon.

This play of light
and dark in equinox,
confuses the waiting
dawn.

Love stings.
And fog covers, the aura
of falling leaves― green
yellow and red. I survive
the quake.

A tiff burns the fingers.
I will not hold the pen.
The blank paper shivers.
Who will write the
wet poem?

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 26th, 2021 19:43
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 24
  • Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    I doubt you ever read my scribbles
    but for some crazy reason, your words below
    elucidate the inspiration for the feeble effort, I posted today:
    'Love stings.
    And fog covers, the aura
    of falling leaves― green
    yellow and red. I survive
    the quake.

    A tiff burns the fingers.
    I will not hold the pen.
    The blank paper shivers.
    Who will write the
    wet poem?'
    (thank you! Guru)



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.