Tell me. Tonight,
when your mind goes blank,
where the smoldering words
will go?
Half-submerged is the harvest
moon. There are splotches
of clouds, but no
clear invite.
Aerial moonlight.
tells the age of tallest pine.
I will not climb the
Everest anymore.
Sky now plunges deep in
an abyss. I will embrace
the upturned terra ferma
and write a new poem.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 27th, 2017 22:15
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments1
Beautiful.
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