My poems are not guilty
On paper, The latitude of this poem sits in rough notebooks and geography chapters, Slipping into cold minds, Struggling to make a move, on world map. In practice, The world is now a shade card of red, And in no time, it will be brown, Or maybe white Where we all will be on the verge to be numb like extinct species, Waiting for a shift, a life generating one, “What goes around comes around" whispers in morse code another poem on a significant day, To slip into our minds, But I fear what if they slip like glaciers? Because, we chop the eco friendly quotes the very next day while throwing...