These Games
That light was as gloomy as the maroon-red sun
In the cozy chamber of your heavenly womb
O! It's not the Sun. a knife-like sharp laser gun
It pierced; cut; as silent as marching to the tomb
Leaving your chamber, like Mars, deep blood-red-rose spun
If death is your gift to me, why these games, dear mom?
12 June 2021
Bite Size Poem no6 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Copyright © Christuraj Alex | Year Posted 2021
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