this winter sheen
insulated the chill
golden stalks
snapped to
splinters
with a bristling
dry crack
grass blades
crumbled
between fingers
in an impulse.
A sadistic one.
jasmine scent
was a memory
trickling down my veins.
An intoxicating one.
love was a feeling
lost in
rush of blood and lust.
A cynical one.
I have grown up
counting my
ruminations
lost in sensations?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem