Flying Glass Shards Poem by Satish Verma
Flying Glass Shards
The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.
The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.
Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.
The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/25/2024 12:37:12 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Good things comes even out of the worst. There is always that thing called hope. Enjoyed.