The Withering Blossoms

satishverma

The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.

Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.

The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.

Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.

The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.

Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: February 12th, 2017 22:44
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 11
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


Comments +

Comments1

  • willyweed

    you write intelligent poems with deep and profound hidden meaning you are a gentleman and a salou



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.