Vendetta Poem by Satish Verma
Vendetta
Brown eyes:
little things―
I ask from you.
This is the holy land,
you can walk, without
offering anything.
I will not surrender
an alter ego
for a price.
The walls scoop
the shadows
for future skin.
A small pilgrimage
for the
dying god.
It hurts when
my lips will not touch
the flame.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 3:30:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119
