Becoming Oneself

Truthless,
I was searching the self, 
in truth of life.

It leaves many
questions, unanswered.
There was import-

of risqué. The generated
heat would kill
ordinary answers.

You can tear up,
a mountain to release
the particles,

although invisible.
You stretch out your hands
to collect black currants.

For a kick-start
you start shouting.
I am the truth !


Satish Verma
Copyright © | Year Posted 2014

Poem

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