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By Satish Verma | Category :: Poem

Be tender, with me―
in midstream.
I will not arrive.

Perversity was not
my virtue. I am still
burning on coals.

It was a disappearing act.
I become a brown rose
in your eyes.

The impacted glitch.
I was not deft
at the art of weaving a ritual.

I carry the dried skull,
of my unknown ancestor,
who would not come back to home.

By Satish Verma | Nov 17, 2017 | Category > Poem >Life | Comments | Views 151


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