Pain Of HawthornA Poem by Satish VermaButchers were in panic. The bulls are coming.
Butchers were in panic.
The bulls are coming. Dandelions were in strike mode. The Ebola dream was competing. Nobody there sleeps in open. The stink of dying poems overwhelms. Please make a self-potrait like Rembrandt nude without a mirror. There was no night watch. © 2019 Satish Verma |
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