Autodidact Poem by Satish Verma
Autodidact
Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.
The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.
Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes―
for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy
of a rich begger―
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 10:31:26 AM # 1.0.0.1119
