The fire thoughts rise,
when the stinging stubble burns
on your green face.
It doesn't smell, the
forked tongue. Taste was
sweet on the skin.
A crimson twilight
narrates the glory of sun,
inviting the moon.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 28th, 2023 20:02
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
Offline)
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