Bottom Of A Doorway
There was once a worried face
who unbuttoned
a white fire
in a pink hole
of an eye to lift
the fingerprints
of depression. It was
a closed-circuit
for a galaxy of
hot flares and flying hurts.
You must not cross
the threshold
of silence, abducting
the blood stained
words.
Come back to your home
O grief,
the fog is thickening outside.
poem by Satish Verma
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