Trauma Versus Birthmark

satishverma

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.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 3rd, 2021 21:08
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 5
  • Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
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