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Taking Off Frills
Folder:
Satish Verma Copper-brown
I was always looking
at your face.
One of trinity,
the fallen spirit, that
did't bore any number?
A visible mark
betrays the flying grief
of a pagan.
Between the cacti,
desert was blooming. No
water, no river in the eyes.
The smoke was
rising, in all its viciousness.
The panic was writ large on the face of moon.
How far was the death
camp of unwanted dreams?
I am not bone, I was not flesh.
