Flying Woes Poem by Satish Verma
Flying Woes
The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.
An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak
of the dead river, of elegy.
No life―
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice―
in north and south.
The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/16/2024 1:19:44 PM # 1.0.0.1119
