In Throes Of Murders Poem by Satish Verma
In Throes Of Murders
We are all liers
No love is made. Racism? Tell
your agony. Money flies.
The faith is negated.
Talking to sun. Lot's of misery.
Savageness. Anxiolytic prevails.
How will you look at
the moon? The muse! Can go
silently for a suicide?
Friday, July 14, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: faith,money,racism,suicide
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8/29/2026 11:22:55 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
