What would you like
to wear, when oracle's
prophecy comes true.
Temple of pure love
was coming up, but there
was no deity.
You wouldn't think,
what I was thinking often.
Last night I slapped myself.
The black moon
rattles, after its message
goes into flames.
Can you talk
in piecemeals, surrounded
by smokescreen of words?
A baby nightingale
sings awkwardly. There
were clouds, no rains.
- Author: satishverma ( Offline)
- Published: November 19th, 2022 22:23
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.