What A Wrath Poem by Satish Verma
What A Wrath
Rating: ★5.0
Another woman
sits on rose hips
and talks about the spirits.
At sunset point,
I watch you undress,
in fading moon.
I would be talking
to the heap of my failures
for the sake of my touchdown.
There was no looking back
in dim light, when―
you were colorblind.
The arrow tip was
dipped in curare.
It goes straight into the beast.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/16/2024 12:17:48 PM # 1.0.0.1119
The French have a phrase for just such judgements: La petite mort. Something like the petty mortician. Never let a living thing stand in the way of imagination.