Satish Verma (5-6-1935)
The padded words
perdured the fall of factuality
into the gaping maw of untruth.
The barriers start
crumbling for stilts
but the alley leads to a jungle of tales.
The manipulation walks
on the frozen lake of eyes.
Blue shadows move underneath to-
find the door. You spend
whole life to locate the dock.
The old sea and man drift in dark.
Only a seagull flies
in morning fog to trace
the sun, halted in clouds.
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