Searching The Method Poem by Satish Verma
Searching The Method
The mirror looks dirty
if you don't wipe out the blood
splattered during assassination.
Oh Godfather, the hourglass
was hypersensitive. Plucks the
time to go in reverse.
The flames become
blue. A humming bird hovers around
to find her old nest.
Monday, June 29, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/17/2024 7:11:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
