Like tussoh, I collect snow
after the blizzard, churning
the quartz, O December.
Time to hang my boots
and listen the call to quarters.
Windows would kill me.
I had my horrors
I had my wine.
The moon was still calling.
My thumb bleeds
for white skin of sun.
Who was depressed in night?
The collateral damage
is bound to happen; if drones
don’t listen to me.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2015 22:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.