a poem by Satish Verma, India

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……………


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