Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2019
It will not happen
again, the eye contact
with swaying moon.

Smoke was rising
from heaps of dead leaves
from distant garden.

You become a past
in the hands of slaughterer.
Ethos plays game.
Written by
Satsih Verma
72
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems