In the pool of blood lies the Finger—decapitated and snatched From its owner’s hand. Whose finger was that? Every one knew nothing of the man; Every one knows something of the man. Lonely and singular finger was thumb; The nail of whose has been uprooted And now there a fly flies Shading its hazed shadow…
Category: Others
To Sylvia…
My first attempt on Erasure Poem. Feel free to comment and point out any mistakes.
A Rumination on the Existence
S’times I think how death looks like…
