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Poems :  Pain Of Hawthorn
Tags: Life  
 
Butchers were in panic.
The bulls are coming.

Dandelions were
in strike mode.
The Ebola dream
was competing.

Nobody there
sleeps in open.
The stink of dying
poems overwhelms.

Please make a
self-potrait like
Rembrandt nude
without a mirror.

There was no
night watch.



Satish Verma

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satishverma
Author satishverma
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Date 2018/5/22 1:23:00
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Recents
Little Gods
Coding An Ocean
The Cameo
Speaking Of Angst
In Nostalgia
Random
Endless Yearning
ALONG THE DOTS
SERIAL DEPLETION
MESSAGE WRITTEN OFF
BURNING IN
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