Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2018
Mealtime 1.45, whereby scores
of wind material run the shop
of slowly suffering, dense cold,
like a bulge in the history of sores-
all I thought was a tinny spore,
a fraction of love to tear down the robe.
Azithral in small doses, calmed down
with tap-food. Hour of the gods.
Written by
Anurag Mukherjee
227
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems