Pain Of Hawthorn Poem by Satish Verma

Pain Of Hawthorn



Butchers were in panic.
The bulls are coming.

Dandelions were
in strike mode.
The Ebola dream
was competing.

Nobody there
sleeps in open.
The stink of dying
poems overwhelms.

Please make a
self-potrait like
Rembrandt nude
without a mirror.

There was no
night watch.

Thursday, October 27, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: life
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