Truism Poem by Satish Verma
Truism
Almost reached.
Your tongue slips;
Then you fall.
The cyclone,
develops an eye, to hit.
You become blind.
An outcast―
became a star
in dark sky.
Why the elite,
of choice or exhibit―
wants to wear rags?
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/23/2024 3:42:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
