Satish Verma
STARS WERE BLACKENING
Black fire was furtively raging
after the massacre of moon.
I still stood with feet of clay
to experiment with my lies.
Bare neck hanging, something
has to be done, to make a gift
for the sake of truth, walking alone
without an effort.
I suddenly realize the illusion
and fail miserably in a perverted manner,
make a mockery of the death trap
in a hospital of thumbs
down, to roll the carpet.
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