Satish Verma Writing

There Was No Rebillion

You were wired, I won't let you go with zinnias

Like for Terra, the goddess of the earth―

The Moral Suicide

On My Terms

Compartment 114
Compartment 114

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In Cursive Style

Reading Nietzsche

I will do no harm in asking the colors of

Tracing your eyebrows on paper― eyes mine, we will

Little birds had become stone pelters.

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