Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2017
Between the swaying palms,
moon was moving
in armada.

Why did you come
late, to whisper, of the
explosive explicit?

But for a lone
cry, I would not
take you.

The jewels were mine.
You had stolen
from my waistband.

It substracts the
stings from my
hobbling gait.
Written by
Satsih Verma
162
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems