Words Beyond

Folder: 
Satish Verma

What were the lies in a truth 
of the buried day? 
Fabulous cries? Tears? 

It was a tremble down 
in the standing crop of men 
ready to be genetically modified. 

Each walk in the city 
exhausts you to an innocent 
tale of manipulated fiction. 

Insects, yes insects 
were climbing on the moon 
like saints with flowing beards 

to drink the blackness 
of sky. There had been a method 
in their madness, in death and whiteness.

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