Who Was Me
A misbelief
breaks into rags.
Still I dream of some gods
on black pages
piecing together the words
of light. The rains come
in the cage of tears,
voicelessly.
Striated muscles of splintered faith
go to cramps birthing
the avatar
without a mother.
I will pick up now
nothingness
from the bounty of silence,
of a stunning question.
Satish Verma
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