Sunday, June 14, 2015

Stumble




Your insufficient touch estrange
an illusion of a forgetful heart.
How helpless is such a buried
sarcophagus of this feeble moment.
Paltry of bare tears hesitate
to run down over obscure absence.
Our fortuitous love is just an extra pyre
On human time and space,
burning a heap of dead
and half dead souls within.

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