Pained Reproaches

by Satish Verma   Feb 1, 2020


The shadows sit,
under the words, to torture,
to bring,
perse memories.

A downfall,
precedes,
before the crash of
existence.

Ah, you know,
what makes your saints
blue? The sematic shooting
stars?

The anxiety was,
how to stop thinking
of becoming,
a vigilante.

The mid-night raid
was most unsuccessful attempt
to rape.

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