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Everything Was You
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Satish Verma A poem dies in me.
I search for you again
deep in my breast.
The initial spurt of
the raging thought―
sleeps on the rags.
With scrawny fingers―
you write a verse of―
moon in night.
The half-moons rise
in the vacant looks
like venus flytrap.
Do not pluck the―
blood roses. My fingers
were still bleeding.
