The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you
start, the dance of death.
Personified, lone word,
unloved; changes the
choreography.
Given space, a sick
crowd, expands, unsquares,
for the throne.
The abysm from which
the cicadas are crawling out
to devour our being.
I do not want to
control you, your song.
I am burning in my own holocaust.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 18th, 2018 19:35
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
- User favorite of this poem: Laura🌻.
Offline)
Comments1
The road to hell is paved with good intentions!
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