MORTAL WOUND

The sunbaked clay.
Dried as golden rays,
Washed it's crevices,
Cracked without reconciliation.

But the early dew,
Wrapped it with finesse,
And the mortal sands,
Flowered with rhythm.
For when one had ripped,
The other healed.
The wind brushed past,as though it revered--
The momentary relief.

And yet again,the sunken warmth,
Rose to power.

And yet again,
The dirt that basked,
Was smothered with agony.

For, yet again
Until the next dawn,
It had died,
Only to live again.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

The beginning and the endings. Hard to tell the different sometimes.
"And yet again,
The dirt that basked,
Was smothered with agony. "
I liked the above lines. You left something for the reader to ponder. Thank you Shweta for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Shweta Sunil]

Thankyou, Coyote :)

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome my friend.