Making Overtures Poem by Satish Verma
Making Overtures
Night.
A scantily clad sky,
with unkempt clouds.
Moon was climbing.
Caved in.
I had nothing left
to say, except
soundless poems.
No regrets;
in this climactic
struggle of life. The
pain eases, when
memory fails.
The flesh engages the
spirit. End would wait
till the grass banks.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/20/2024 12:19:57 AM # 1.0.0.1119
