The Fog Comes Deep Poem by Satish Verma
The Fog Comes Deep
My brain was grey.
Lives in you. The thoughts quarrel.
Can I have my pain back?
Blind lover, how come
you predict? The clots are increasing.
The religion of pacifism fails.
The ecology sinks.
Panorama looks black. Our fights
are engrossed in digging gold. I am the god.
Tuesday, September 19, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: fog
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8/29/2026 10:47:06 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
