It Does Not Matter

After a face – off
you toss the coin
resenting the liquid fame.

Frame extracts the price
of picture.
Compassion for the artist was missing.

I suffer in mid moon
between darkness and light
clarity of rags was improving.

Homage is now going to hurt
after the fall of ego, in
ending of alchemy.

In spite or sorrow
a face drills holes
in my wheels.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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