Not a single word added today
to my tinsel book. The brown eyes
were searching my smile.
You want to close the happening
of first moon and the fig.
My roses start a new dialect,
waiting on the clouds, almost
in rains, spreading the wetting
agent between the eyes.
The distance was the most crucial
thing, that does not end;
endlessly stretching.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 6th, 2011 22:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 31
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments1
Interesting. Sounds like love that didn't make it? As in the age-old disappointment where one loves and the other does not really?
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