It slithers, the tongue
trying to find
the rage on cold words.
A window
shuts on fire for a deliberate
withdrawl from conflicts.
The virgin iron
becomes a corpse
under the golden
amnesia of hot greens.
The colors are changing
on face
and the silky grass of paradise.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 5th, 2015 22:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
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