Satish Verma
Again A Sheep Walk
I will be kissing in proxy―
at the dark side of
the moon, where my twin crashed.
The cracks had emerged
in the fiery zone― the flames
reaching the zenith of blue, killer sky.
A tamed hematoma,
speaks― for the ripped open brain.
There was nobody left to be whole.
Survivors were the gift
of miracle. A saint starts
abusing the stars.
The god’s temple lies―
in ruins, buried under the sand,
debris and the dead faith.
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