The stings wither, I
was walking on burning coals.
From temple deity was gone.
After defeat― the
skinned poems, will amble in dried
lake of brown eyes.
Teardrops had made
the grass green. A shrine doesn't
come up for the moon.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 6th, 2022 19:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments1
what imagery! such an impactful read
thanks for sharing
(and yes, believing in anything
seems so hard
in the face of Nature's animalistic
need to whittle down its creations
by insuring, we are all challenged
continuously
for that Aurora gift of a new morning...)
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