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THINKING OFF

I walk through the slush 
of moral grief.
Here lies my mortal poem.

A prodigal menace.
You will not breathe in, the 
golden grass, once more.
Lingering beside the past, the
savage today. I pick up 
the silence of the tomb.

Lateral conjugation. You 
come from the otherside to
breach the wall, bear the
                     pluralism?

and become none. The under-
belly, the yellow blood ?
Will you hold my hand
to cross the meaning ?


Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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