There was a cryptic message
about a demise at the roof top
of a tree.

Blue sky would whip it up to a cock
on an ornate cloud of an ego
for a free fall from the moon.

Give leverage to the silence of a cudgel
to uproot the bristle from a face
of a fear; there was an ominous warning.

Ancestors of jar will pour out the honey
on emptiness of a truth
about the fiction of a planet.

Nose for nose, battle was on,
between tank and toe,
hand and pen.

SATISH VERMA

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