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FLYING GLASS SHARDS
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Satish Verma The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.
The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.
Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.
The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.
