Words Are Mine

Blood was in season,
on your hands.
A staged encounter
mauling the clouds.

Into a hare, you put the lead
with a roar of gun
and sun wants his share.

Beneath the honours
lies the guilt
of a ravaged moon.

I will not walk again
on the bristles of power.
Uncanny love lies in state.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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