We have come very
near to each other. The drums are ready
to go, before our assassination.
Like primitive Neanderthals,
I am carving a lined pictograph
of sobre thoughts on Hibiscus.
The solitude in haze
still calls you. The raw and burning
hurts are blood loving on the moon.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 8th, 2021 19:38
- Category: Nature
- Views: 33
- Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
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