At life closing,
were you in peace
with your slips?
The weariness brings
a curse. You start
shredding.
Like a newfound
fossil egg, you kiss
the lost poem.
A dependent
wound stops hurting.
I bring a stoned version.
The moon and the
resurrected dream,
throw long shadows on lake.
My boat goes in flames.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 29th, 2023 20:27
- Category: Nature
- Views: 2
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.