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SONG OF UNQUIET SPIRIT

Staples were traveling on the epiderm, thanking the wounds. The dust, the eternal ugliness were growling. Riveting drama: a royal swanking for a macabre heist. A bizarre charisma overtakes the cozy lips. I was green, and I was a cloud where the sunflowers meet beneath the sun. Blind poppies assert themselves unfurling a flag of milky sap. The wasps were going- to become stingless. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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