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by Satish Verma Dec 29, 2022 category : Nature, environment / nature
No, I don't think, when I write. My poem finds its own words. The thought moves stealthily. You put your hand on my hand. Your eyes now search the lost kingdom of trembling nostalgia. Will I remain human? Living amidst the burials? Do the dead laugh? Was there a casualty at beach? You will not swim nor drown, for becoming a nightingale. My eminent revere was to live, waiting for you!
by Ricky Story
Talk about some skilled necromancy. Lol. Rs