Mysterious Poem by Satish Verma
Mysterious
Grip loosening;
the lesser evil─
will liberate you─
from the nights terror.
The moon bleeds,
in your bed.
A raw wound─
unblinks in pain.
No words will speak
for the fallen icon.
The death has extracted
its price.
Black milk exudes
from the round breasts.
Sun was rising.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/25/2024 8:51:24 AM # 1.0.0.1119
