The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.
The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.
Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.
The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 18th, 2017 22:49
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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