This was exotic.
A single drop throbs in space.
I walk on blades.
I think farther from―
The relics of disasters.
You love to read palms.
Talking of slaughter,
moon bled to death,
when you left in dark.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 14th, 2021 19:30
- Category: Nature
- Views: 42
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
some poetry, just surpasses
whatever praise we could - ever, come up with
and so, all we can do
is read and accept: gratefully
with the utmost sincerity..
thank you, Guru!
'This, was exotic.
A single
drop, throbs
in space.
I walk on blades.
I think farther
from―
The relics of disasters.
You, love
to read palms, Talking
of slaughter
moon, bled to death
when, you left in dark.'
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