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) - Published: October 3rd, 2021 21:08
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.