Short Immigrated Poems

Waiting for a prickly path 
at crossroads,
where desolation sits in
between words and flesh.

Hanging shells on windows
where light immigrated
to prophecies of Buddha.The 
violence will never end.

Can you find some space
between the bullets ? Between
the contrasts lie the black
thoughts and sick arguments.

Through the comets who will shoot
bleeding flag ?



Satish Verma...

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