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Not A Noble Thing
Folder:
Satish Verma Poetry of vengeance.
This was not any pulverized
version of new memes, the
digital eating
of the truth.
We are not moving at all.
A hidden rope becomes a rattler,
frightens you from the
narcissistic stupor.
Every day a scam erupts.
The veil remains intact, but the
undercurrent explores the path
to kill you.
There was no music left in
legs. A black window jumps
over the fence. A sharp
sting brings the angina.
