Lipped-wet,
Counterfeits.
Fakes neither audible
nor visible.
The moment dies
in our hands.
It was a non-
happening.
Silence booms
destroying the palace,
of dreams. I should have
become the scissors.
This poem is not charitable
gnawing at the underlip
of an orphaned
moon.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: August 4th, 2015 22:51
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
Offline)
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