a particle burning in flames—
bedridden with a heart on chain
a scent of an old lady with a porcelain
a premonition that life can never be a game.
the last time at the hands of death,
lungs are getting ouf of breath—
a synchronised motion when you speak
black man with a scythe shall greet.
when oxygen melts
December, 2023
YOU ARE READING
Pieces of Moonbeams
PoetryPieces of Moonbeams | 2023 This poetry collection contains proses & proses woven from my heart. Pieces here are a part of me. Stained by longing, love, grief, hurt, happiness, and any other available emotion I could profoundly describe. -- I am rel...
