Poem - Bad weather

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It’s a bad weather.

A white cloth dipped in black paint.

The pigeon starts growing tiger stripes.

A featherless peacock brings no joy.

It’s bad weather. Oh, it’s bad weather. 


The blood goes boiling, still I froze.

My heart is sort of a furnace now. 

The tiny bubbles break aloud, your head hears no voice.

The nights went long as eyes count the hours.

It’s bad weather, baby bad weather, just a bad weather.


haritux.in 

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