With-Beingness Poem by Satish Verma
With-Beingness
Rating: ★5.0
The stings wither, I
was walking on burning coals.
From temple deity was gone.
After defeat― the
skinned poems, will amble in dried
lake of brown eyes.
Teardrops had made
the grass green. A shrine doesn't
come up for the moon.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/13/2024 2:18:02 AM # 1.0.0.1119
