Pain Of Hawthorn

Pain Of Hawthorn

A Poem by Satish Verma
"

Butchers were in panic. The bulls are coming.

"
Butchers were in panic. 
The bulls are coming. 

Dandelions were 
in strike mode. 
The Ebola dream 
was competing. 

Nobody there 
sleeps in open. 
The stink of dying 
poems overwhelms. 

Please make a 
self-potrait like 
Rembrandt nude 
without a mirror. 

There was no 
night watch.

© 2019 Satish Verma


My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register




Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

18 Views
Added on May 21, 2019
Last Updated on May 21, 2019
Tags: Butchers