Dying with minutes
in dark, when the sun
prepares to leave.
You cannot kill
history. It had happened
on the skin of freaks.
At midnight, I will give
a call to unseen, unheard
egoist, to forget anger.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 22nd, 2023 20:16
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: James Michael
Offline)
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