Photo by ruedi häberli on Unsplash
Fenced eruptions,
Checked by thorny fogs,
And dried fig scribbling logs,
Morose winds sweep the grass,
Tapping glass to a slight wink,
Forge of the studious beards,
At 2 am keep pajamas of pink,
Hordes of mistakes lay frozen,
Chisels working on glacial seeds,
Torment speaks on lips of the clock watcher,
For the eruptions,
May be dug to bleed.
About the Creator
Debaditya Dutta
Like a house, I go layers deep. Can promise the skill, and if its a gift, its been sharpened for close to a decade now. I have to become the samurai of ink, and that's only through careful, deliberate spilling of ink.
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