The knot was broken
from the waist,
as if we were struck
by a bolt.
Thinking must stop.
Violence was there within
the pods, to explode and
eject the seeds.
The silent rape of a
sleeping book. You cannot
tear off the pages,
limb by limb.
You will not read the
past. Would not write
the future. The present roars
through the window starting a brush fire.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 7th, 2018 19:24
- Category: Nature
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
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Comments1
‘Tis the present in an uproar!
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