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) - Published: August 26th, 2021 19:43
- Category: Nature
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
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)
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