![]() Middle TruthA Poem by Satish Verma![]() Middle Truth![]()
White doves
with clipped wings were losing the visual acuity. The pride was damaged without consolation. How much you can climb on the heap of the dead? Honeybees won't buzz now in sun. Can I ask your real name by birth? There would not be any religion? Perhaps I was not pure as your virgin paradise. Your breadth does not reach me any more. I am going high to confront the unknown, to kill the flesh. There were no bones of truth. © 2021 Satish Verma |
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