You have your own
words, hired from my
lips. Ad libbed I will
go dumb.
There was instant
empathy with fireflies.
They don't sing while burning.
It was a highlitened
pain, when I moved my
dark fingers on your
white skin to write a poem.
Who was picking
marbles after breaking
the glass windows?
Love was not
a job to be completed.
It makes you immortal
in your grave.
Is this was my
punishment? I will not
see your hands?
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 18th, 2021 22:31
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
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