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Strange Phenomenon
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Satish Verma You are brain-dead
with amnesia
in winter snow.
A frozen pulse, without blood
running, bluish-black
death.
Was death always black?
Not like supple, red poppy
leaving the stigma mark
on your white shirt?
Landing amidst the
crowd, of funlovers, there
was no exit, and I must
meet my enemy
my shore.
