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Satish Verma A monster from a tree
jumps and runs around the bushes
to mate.
A blank statement
is issued. The system groans
and collective pshyche fails.
A stark silence
for the food for thoughts.
I sit down to meditate-
to find the bloody answer
for white death. The dirty
work to sweep the floor.
It smells like an
amputated leg.
Do we need to draw a circle around the bomb?
With a lie on your lips,
are you going to negotiate
with violence?
