Enough
A leached amputee
living with stumps of flawless
dying.
Round and round, blindfolded
moving in circle, drawn by rhyming
bells.
Perhaps you need to suffer
with the drunken race of
snipers.
I am in the silent valley of
barefoot secrets where moon waits to
die.
The poppies will buy the bullets,
a gift to unending kiss of
grief.
Tell every vulture on the tree,
there is endless arrival of
feasts.
SATISH VERMA
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