Mystery Poem by Satish Verma
Mystery
The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense
was failing.
A mother weeps
for the unborn child.
You were still ogling the peaks.
Were you true to yourself
in the dark, when the
moon was away?
I had lost the burning
coals, after the
rains came.
The dark mine, where
they were shot, for
picking up the lightning.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
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4/19/2024 10:45:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
