Eyes half-shut, you are seeing,
unseeing to house the failing light.
When the tornado writhes down, will
you come to clean the rubble?
And splash the bird, the sky in purple?
I am afraid of myself
to explore the craft of non-living.
When the silence descends, I will
know myself, like the bone of Buddha.
The words will not give
any relief, whipped into terror.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: June 8th, 2018 19:58
- Category: Nature
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
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Comments1
by then...
too late for words...
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