Dead Architecture Poem by Satish Verma
Dead Architecture
My dissent grows. Moon
was still far away from my poems. A
savage atmosphere, You need celtic saint.
Will the dawn appear?
A dysplasia. The bird looks blind.
A blue jay? Will you bet on death?
Life has become an
Agave. Rosette of strong fleshy leaves.
Water inside no flowers bloom.
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5/7/2024 4:06:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
