Satish Verma Writing

Becoming myself, in the light of a flint, I

To drink the sea, spilled over

Do not give me a dream.

Gifting myself a new hurt, though ephemeral, do

Salt burnt, you come under the shade

Why the pink words float in black eyes?

Mind goes blank. In the interim relief- I will wake

This was a circle which broke.

Like it was pain of sea. The waves are not rising.

I will ask the moonflower to give me

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Compartment 114
Compartment 114

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