A missile in the home,
what they have done?
You are on flames.
A red smoke rises
from bottomless hole.
Memory slumps.
A glow in pain washed
cells, calls the mirror.
Instead, grave diggers arrive.
This was the manufactured truth
of the eternal kiss
of death. I stretch my arms
to feel the terror.
The walls start crying.
There was no roof.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 22nd, 2012 22:30
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
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