by Satish Verma
It was night sin
of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading
the white secret of pain
in the hollow of a mayhem.
Till every blunder takes a
downward flight striping the outsized
image of a kill. His flames are
now singeing the eyebrows of angels.
His foes have entered the compound.
The black was alluringly looped in
a stream of blood. Death did not
wait for a ceremony.
Lips forgetting the golden sheep,
tongue apologies for the wronged earth.
Last updated February 19, 2013