SINGING WOODS

satishverma

Walking out of the body
I was drowned, 
accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow.
A wide circle of testosterone
giving pardon to a sin
becomes sexless.

You were overwhelmed by the missed beats.
Your prosaic crime of not fathering
the words becomes a belly dance
for wrinkled verses. There was no meaning left
for the artifacts, the national shame.

The autumn was praying for the
well-being of pine needles in fog. The repetition
of the outbursts was cold and I
was smiling. 

Satish Verma

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: January 4th, 2011 00:42
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 25
  • Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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