Lost Tribe Poem by Satish Verma
Lost Tribe
At life closing,
were you in peace
with your slips?
The weariness brings
a curse. You start
shredding.
Like a newfound
fossil egg, you kiss
the lost poem.
A dependent
wound stops hurting.
I bring a stoned version.
The moon and the
resurrected dream,
throw long shadows on lake.
My boat goes in flames.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 9:11:54 PM # 1.0.0.1119
