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Poems :  Autodidact
Tags: Life  
 
Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.

The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.

Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes―

for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy

of a rich begger―
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.



Satish Verma

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satishverma
Author satishverma
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Date 2018/2/25 1:12:04
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Recents
The Land Pulls
Dwarfing
Little Gods
Coding An Ocean
The Cameo
Random
Silence Of The Falls
A Small Story
A Bruised Memory
NIHILITY
THE DEAD DREAM
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