A Spirited Dust Poem by Satish Verma
A Spirited Dust
Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,
falling like rains
on the parched lips
of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a
grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,
pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy
of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.
Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/23/2024 5:19:12 PM # 1.0.0.1119
