The freckles were
appearing on the face
of Venus―
Arms broken.
A man-eater was shot
dead, while feeding.
The reddened skin
invites a vespa. Sometimes
you love the stings.
You wait for
the sunsets, before the
Venus flytrap shuts.
Drifting on the
dust road, I start
searching my lost address.
How will you hear
my voice?
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 6th, 2023 20:02
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.