Posted in Poetry

Lost lot

The name she calls out to the vacant

fills the void with the silent absence.

Her eyes chase the flights of desire

that imbibe the sense to the heart

in sweet honeydew of lovely illusions.

But the bleakness of rude silence

shatters them and shakes her sense.

Author:

I write stuff of my interest that does not interest anyone in my blog. No grammarians, no copy editors, no marketers, no cynics are welcome.

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