Read me if you
care. I am going to
rip off the lid of oven.
How many faces
you will wear, when it is
raining silver and gold?
It sounds like wrought
bones. I find myself suspended
in air, like humming bird,
not like drone.
It was a mutual
suicide of opioid love. It
does not belong to me. the
divested home of words.
The pink wounds
on the wall of memory.
Not me, not you.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 4th, 2023 20:05
- Category: Nature
- Views: 3
Offline)
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