What Times

satishverma

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.

  • Author: satishverma (Offline Offline)
  • Published: May 18th, 2018 19:35
  • Category: Nature
  • Views: 11
  • Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
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Comments +

Comments1

  • Laura🌻

    The road to hell is paved with good intentions!



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