Reached,
not yet pubescence:
a cloud says, moon was
crazy, treading on a
forbidden lake of frozen tears.
Breaking fast unto death
for releasing the doves
in sky of hymns.
The gametes were weary.
Procreation will wait.
Let the dark particles
start a ceremony of scoops
to carry the impatient twister
inside me,
to pull off the yokes and
set the flames free.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 28th, 2015 22:48
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
Offline)
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