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: 10
Offline)
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