satishverma

Everything Was You

Category: /General/
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A poem dies in me.
I search for you again
deep in my breast.

The initial spurt of
the raging thought―
sleeps on the rags.

With scrawny fingers―
you write a verse of―
moon in night.

The half-moons rise
in the vacant looks
like venus flytrap.

Do not pluck the―
blood roses. My fingers
were still bleeding.

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