He was picking up the words, as collaborators, to defend himself, when I first approached him.
Next to resistance, his embittered ego was hiding, undescended truth.
You touch the impolite, stinging nettle, and feel the tattooed burning.
At present, charity was sleeping on innocent bolster of doubt.
Comments and utterances, were all fake, blasphemy was intentional like a ball of wool thrown to measure the fall.
The smoke was gathering on house tops people were sick of confabulations deaddiction of lamps…………… pain.
SATISH VERMA
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