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Flying Glass Shards

By Satish Verma | Category :: Poem

The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.

The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.

Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.

The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.

By Satish Verma | Nov 18, 2017 | Category > Poem >Life | Comments | Views 195

 
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