You dig in your heels,
when blood spills
under the skin.
Refuses to go, the homeless moon,
I will call the snow to cover the sod.
Scavenging,
through the stray thoughts, you
pick up the threads, to knit―
a scarf for the poem.
Body born, a planet
breaks, in your epic. The ivory
shaving will make a white gold.
The birth pangs start in natal pain.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 9th, 2018 20:07
- Category: Nature
- Views: 26
Offline)
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