(7 September 1791 – 21 December 1863 / Rome)

The Fury Of Sunsets

cold is in the air,
an aura of ice
and phlegm.
All day I've built
a lifetime and now
the sun sinks to
undo it.
The horizon bleeds
and sucks its thumb.
The little red thumb
goes out of sight.
And I wonder about
this lifetime with myself,
this dream I'm living.
I could eat the sky
like an apple
but I'd rather
ask the first star:
why am I here?
why do I live in this house?
who's responsible?

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Comments (24)

That is the real sign of true love not all about materialism everytime nice one Pls comment on my work IGARA CHICKEN
this was a great poem and I like it
I wish poems could be more than 5 stanzas
Yes, love doesn't have any particular shape.It remains in everything in an abstract form and glorify them. Chandan
And that should be enough!
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