Poetry

Satish Verma


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5 january 2021

Flying Woes

The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.

An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak

of the dead river, of elegy.

No life-
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice-
in north and south.

The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.






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