Satish Verma
How Much Does It Matter
You were not choosing
the right words, being reticent
for a seasoned yes.
The hurts of intimate
symphonies― don't bleed.
Only scars were left in triangles.
The chilled morality
of summer stream, was eating
away the banks of amnesties.
It was a sublime touch
of unseen fingers moving into
the trees and sky of dark spaces.
Days were slipping
away. I cannot put my
memories on flame.
There were explosions
on the crossroads.
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