A kite hovers,
on a stormy night,
the leaden drops;
drag it down,
the gale whispers
softly; to let go,
to give up,
to the flow
yet flimsy threads,
a thousand of em',
intertwine and entangle,
to hold the kite,
to his life so dear.
death may be;
an enticing offer,
yet I can't sever,
these threads at;
my own accord.
- Author: krutarth (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: May 31st, 2022 12:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: JudyStella
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