Flesh of my poems
was my marker's bread. The skin of the sun
covers the bruised body of the moon.
Your belly was taut. I am
searching the button of life's shirt.
You will not come out of the snow.
Circles always surrender
to straight lines. Something has
broken me. I start writing again.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2021 21:08
- Category: Nature
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
Offline)
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