The Stranger Poem by Satish Verma
The Stranger
Ready to pounce on
a scarecrow.
The ants were hungry.
It was a dried bone―
frame, wearing the royal
costume, waiting for the moon.
Can you play with the
jewels and still
remain poor?
The suckers refuse to
shrink, taking away skin,
the eyes, the ears.
It overwhelms the loneliness,
the silence, the colossus,
and the two-faced king in making.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/19/2024 2:26:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
