When the sun goes down bleeding
beyond the hills yonder,
I will meet you under
the acacias.

As a souvenir I will keep
your lips in my books for history.
As a gift I will give you
my tears.

This desert of hate has bleached
my fingers, bone white.
I cannot write a monologue
of death in waning light.

I wake to sleep in blasts.
My palms hold out the great silence.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: January 10th, 2016 22:34
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 27
  • Users favorite of this poem: Soscorpio
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