27 february 2019

poetry

Satish Verma
Satish Verma

The Warts

Like a wax moth, me― 
sensing your footsteps 
from a mile. 
 
* 
 
The half-truths 
were always baked in milk 
to look white. 
 
* 
 
The cleric was 
jubilant. God has decided 
not to live any more.

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