The Target
In a love triangle,
I move out of the center
to find a boat.
Locked in a sperm
a messanger becomes a brute.
Who will draw the circle
on the mercy petition?
This was a curse on the bed
which will not go to sleep for a whore.
The stings. Everytime you
open the mouth, you spurt
out the barbs, I walk into fire.
The kill. It was a perfect
landing. Wounds will never
heal. The beach remains dry.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.