A poem, like death-was
unpredictable. You wait for it,
it does not come.
Then you drag a corpse
on stones to find its home
which never materializes.
You give me a hurt. I
become mute. Very shy
to accept the verbatim.
How different we are
in alikeness. I touch you in twilight
of life to become one.
And from daily life
I gather the pain, to print
the version of tomorrow.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 16th, 2018 20:08
- Category: Nature
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments1
Very nice, and spiritual indeed.
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