Satish Verma
What September
Ceaselessly,
the September moon
was sending poems
in quick succession.
Life had come to a grinding halt.
The walls,
wait to end the race of
stings. The heat was
a dirty yellow.
You will witness the fall of a titan.
The genome of red
wine grape was
similar to a forgotten
verse, after the―
rage of ageing cells of a sage.
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