12 october 2017
The Withering Blossoms
The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.
Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.
The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.
Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.
The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.
Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.
20 april 2024
To Dying MuseSatish Verma
19 april 2024
1904wiesiek
19 april 2024
The VoyagerSatish Verma
18 april 2024
ItinerantSatish Verma
17 april 2024
Nim kur zapiejeJaga
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Between Done And UndoneSatish Verma
16 april 2024
Przed zmrokiemJaga
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1604wiesiek
15 april 2024
I RememberSatish Verma
14 april 2024
....wiesiek