closure

 

and i am done for today,
the grey hopes, stoned and tied.
A torrential wave of numb waters,
flushing, choking.
i sit on the ground where a fly wilts,
sticking its head on the soil.
To be a morose winter, maybe.
And i resemble that.
My hands are not butter anymore,
they do not count stars,
they stink rather of filth/  bluish trepidation.
And I am done for the day, like that.

Published by

my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others.

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