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The Middle Ground

I try to think, not to think of you; cede hope to candor. You will not contribute, to your own rape, of truth; rediscovering the shame. The modesty will not sit on the stigmata. Moths were becoming defiant. Copiously drenched, under the wet moon, a poem will seek a title. It returns back, the kiss, you sent for the flame. It was very hot, the farewell. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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