TruismA Poem by Satish VermaAlmost reached. Your tongue slips;
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? © 2019 Satish Verma |
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Added on July 26, 2019 Last Updated on July 26, 2019 |

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