Afterimages
A whisperer with its begging bowl
wants a moon in alms.
A candle burns in panic.
The serpent was sitting in a prayer.
The golden teeth will find the apples
leafless, pleading for a fall.
Stoking the fire, you step on a ghost.
It was a fake, I scream.
Do not tamper the ruins of the tower.
They are going to find the death masks.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
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