The riot was within.
Not getting along with social
revolution you would lie
on purple patch without seeking
any privy.
Who were the barbarians
which were going to release
the brutal pattern of bloodshed
during sunset on
the lake?
A mistrial will dispatch
the violence and you will drop
dead on the dirt path leading
to bed of roses. A theme will
wait for the signing of the book.
Someone punched you in solar
plexus. You said, I don’t
die daily to live.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 6th, 2016 02:30
- Category: Nature
- Views: 43
- Users favorite of this poem: Reivax Camlost
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