Softly Poem by Satish Verma
Softly
A severed hand
writes the history of
falling man.
Lynching to raise
the kill rate.
Where are we going?
Unknowable what?
The mystery of
elusive truth?
Collecting the debris
after the impact. Are
we becoming aliens?
Unnamed, a
humming bird reaches at
the anniversary of last name.
In the valley of rainbows
there was no iris.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 7:13:37 AM # 1.0.0.1119
