A city dies in me
anacephalic.
A white sheet spreads/
blinding.
You don’t feel the epidural.
Untitled, death walks/
like a whore/
contamination of inbreeding.
Recycled pain
hurts again. You want
to give a stillbirth
over the dense-packed nettle.
First birthday of a dream.
Satish Verma
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 27th, 2012 20:33
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
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