The jungle was ageless.
Moon drops a hint.
Your poems go in flames.
In dark I had
weaved a dream. You were
worshiping a bystander.
The Ars Poetica took
a turn and became a
message for departing sun.
Republic of pain
signs up to cross the death
after meeting the talking trees.
Who will dance
to celebrate the history
of broken hearts?
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 7th, 2023 21:39
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
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