Satish Verma
A Lone Journey
Invasion was thin
like a feather's fall
on the mirror.
Only bride will know,
the rose petals were
meant for unthinking.
Scattering rice
to dig out the tools
of prehistonic man.
The previous night
I taught myself
how not to peel the oranges―
with bare hands,
in terror, when there was
endless path to unknown.
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