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Poems :  History Repeats
Tags: Life  
 
My killing instincts
were intact.
On this bloody moon day-
I must talk to myself.

Just lips would move,
not the mind.

A mode of non-being
comes in fore. You watch the pansies dancing-
nonchalantly.

The air passes. White phosphorus
ignites on its own.

Memory alternates with pain.
It is not over.
We are still searching ourselves
in a mound of earth.



Satish Verma

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satishverma
Author satishverma
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Date 2019/6/19 6:34:18
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Recents
Lashing Out
Making Gunpowder
Forked Tongues
Lost Vision
The Candle In Snow
Random
TIMELESS AFFAIR
EXILED
THE REDUNDANT
TOXIC MEMORY
FACSIMILE
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