By Devita Malya
The torn gem
of the sparkling hem,
the mind.
Weaving the thoughts,
yanking and bellowing at the hem,
though not in fault.
Thou!
The reason, you are.
Whimpering for the dove,
the stripes that call out-
"O— Rusting thoughts of thee
resting for hours wee,
lost in the darkness of the night
echoing the mellow.
A glitch, to kill itself.”
By side, the dove humming
Its death.
"In fault, you are,
looking for hands around
to hold tight.
A fool!"
Thou, seeking peace,
lost in the darkness of the night
mellowing the hums of death.