Something was left behind.
I was collecting all the
dried roses for the prison of
eyes. I ask myself― what was that.
Something was left behind.
A black rose? Near the
smoked candles of poems? A
tiger lily, still had the blood spots?
Why do I forget the precious things?
Something was left behind.
I wait for the butterfly,
to wake, which had breathed
last between the tender
moments. Why do I want?
Something was to be left behind!
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 24th, 2023 20:58
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
Offline)
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