The hurt of a game.
Myth has played with the─
life of a song bird.
A dream becomes opaque.
You cannot find any─
image of blood.
A window shuts─
the moon. The rainbow will
grope for a sky.
And I must find
some excuse to live. The nascent
hope outleaps the black─
rain falling on eyes. Panic
grips poppies. They throw up the
color, the fresh dawn.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 13th, 2017 22:40
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
Offline)
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