It comes nearer
and nearer every night,
the face, like fog.
A cult of moon
spills the milk on the pink lips.
Salt and the honey.
Before fated
kiss of death, you pluck,
roses from eyes.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 19th, 2023 20:15
- Category: Nature
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
Superb work.
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