Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Who

The vine
withered.
Moth brown.
Drawn to
darkness.
Small, it felt,
smothered under
the green sky
canopy dense.
It saw not
that a
flower purple
had just
awakened.
Caressed
by its tendrils.

3 comments:

virinder sabharwal said...

The poet in you has really really grown. This is mind blowing!!

virinder sabharwal said...

The poet in you has really really grown. This is mind blowing!!

Anjali said...

so lovely :)