Satish Verma
What Went Wrong?
In twilight,
the noose tightens─
and shadows start walking
towards you; to reclaim
your anonymity─
and declare in deadpan manner:
the author is dead.
Your smallness goes
on sale. You are subjected
to scrutiny by the small print, but
the truth escapes from lidless eyes.
A private punishment.
There was blood on the knife.
Why did you write a
sanguinary poem for your savior today?
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