Satish Verma

The town was 
It does not listen to me 
that moribund heart, now. 
The biome was ready 
to set on fire all the smiles. 

No person of god 
will lead the prayers to grave. 
Let the dust meet the dust 
stealthly and 
you win the script surreptitiously. 
Beautifully done, the obscene death. 

A bruise spreads 
shattering the mirrors of perfect accident.

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