In the cavernous mind
a thought becomes
redundant.
You go straight for a snakeroot.
A flat cluster of white flowers
spurs a stigma
at the white moon
for floating rumors.
This was my native pain
of brilliant tapestry.
The threads had a weaver’s knot
of rare beliefs.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 2nd, 2011 22:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- User favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy.
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