Milkweed
Mundane indulgence for a prlonged state
of agony in truth of fake lies and synthetic tears,
bloated rendition of angels; the hate crawls
out from the ruins of time. I crave for the musical
instruments left in the room. The song was inside
the winds, became untouchable in obscene
display of naked screams, the freedom of
stones to kill the
black roses for rivals. Somebody stages a
comeback for toppling the victor. A viper
is thrown at you in dark to deliver a message !
SATISH VERMA
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