Stay till end of
my poem, for
dying sun.
Howling winds searched
my body, my soul
when I stood alone.
The blue scorpion knows
its religion. That was predation.
Landfall for hungry.
If the blood leaks,
the victim sings for moksha.
Milking starts.
The golden leaves
are peeled off from the moon.
No night was safe.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 5th, 2023 21:11
- Category: Nature
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: willowthewisp
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