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Feb 2019
When you swap
your emotions with red moon,
my poem bleeds.

A huge graffiti becomes
visible, when dark clouds
gather for the gossip.

In absenteeism,
you were the sharpest pain
of my pen.

A purple smoke was
rising again, without-
a flame. One beat skips
and hundred blames come.

You don't speak
your mind. Pure faults go
unnoticed. The conversation
drops between two blades
of grass. Magenta
moon drips.
Written by
Satsih Verma
116
 
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