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How Much Does It Matter

You were not choosing
the right words, being reticent
for a seasoned yes.

The hurts of intimate
symphonies? don't bleed.
Only scars were left in triangles.

The chilled morality
of summer stream, was eating
away the banks of amnesties.

It was a sublime touch
of unseen fingers moving into
the trees and sky of dark spaces.

Days were slipping
away. I cannot put my
memories on flame.

There were explosions
on the crossroads.
Satish written by

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