I am arranging the pages of life.
In or out
yes or no
lies the broken self,
embittered memories.
Age has blackened the faces of mannequins
at the edge of salt lake.
I had taken in all, the purple heart,
with its pulsating agony
excuse was never my thing.
Somewhere a bell rings
keeps on ringing
clear and faithful
untouched by echo,
chained to a soundless sea.
Poem was not a possibility
in the anniversary of damp thighs
and goodness,
frightened prologue
gives a simile.
SATISH VERMA
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