Coming near the incarnation of an
unknown, sunflower seeds were cracking.
Trickling down the cleavage of a tormentor
reaching near the edge of poetry.
I ask you to clamp my name, the
gash on the book was bleeding.
Was it discretion of night to decorate
a battered and abused body of a doll?
Naked you cry on the shoulder of the moon.
This was my prophecy, this is my fate.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 30th, 2016 22:47
- Category: Nature
- Views: 23
- User favorite of this poem: xlocoxcocoa.
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