Becoming blind
in lightless depth;
between the faults
we meet.
Moving the wheels.
I was the sound; -
spreading across the
unspoken epiphany.
Flirting with inevitable
doom, you crash on
the poems of –
raging green.
A tongue wants a
novelty of death,
in the arms of
the frozen light.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 22nd, 2017 19:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 25
Offline)
Comments1
Nice flow!
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