In hirsute adolescence
a narcissist climbs
the breast and becomes
a graveyard of moons.
Talking of marginality,
a hole in the chest
ejects a secret of peachy skin
when wind was selling sex.
Most corrupt was me
always telling truth about the
warm eggs of chaotic legs
who will not climb down the street.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 26th, 2015 22:37
- Category: Nature
- Views: 10
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.