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Poems :  After The Ceremony
Tags: Life  
 
I would be riding
your stumps- to
byzantine castle
of ardor.

It was not
my thesis- to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.

In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.

The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.

What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.



Satish Verma

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satishverma
Author satishverma
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Date 2019/3/10 0:12:02
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