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WAIST-HIGH SUNK

When you release the 
words, your curled fingers 
burst into flame.

It was an ancient filth, 
a bird fighting in the mud- 
house of quote-unquote.

Someone navigated 
over the bald heads to find 
a landing place for a cuckoo.

Between real and fiction, 
you cannot write a hymn 
in praise of satan, called god.

I am done with the darkness 
all around, and rip open 
the wall to let in the jupiter.


Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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Date: 6/30/2016 9:21:00 AM
the only one i have read today... left me struck with wonder... have read it many times actually... so subtle blended meanings.. into perfect whole. Namaste!
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