The Withering Blossoms by Satish Verma SignUp
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Theme: Life Share This Page
The Withering Blossoms
by Satish Verma
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  The guile demands 
some apology, 
from raw stings. 

Flirting with illegibility: 
Mercurially hot, 
there was a preemptive strike. 

The monsoon comes late. 
You would wait for the 
wet encounter. 

Not seedy one; 
dragging a green wound. 
Ending sine die. 

The white salt 
on the lips will speak - 
the telltale marks of crude assault. 

Who will surrender 
in the end, I will 
find out, covering my eyes.
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October 08, 2013
More By: Satish Verma
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