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Feb 2018
Small truths
of gun battle,
with black roses in hands,
beg for peace.

You fly with broken wings,
and fall like a damp squib.

The darkened facts
in outsized pain, want to
revert back to line of separation.

How will you enter
into the sinless book to find
the words of a prophet?

Nothing was personal.
I have come to you―
to complain about you.

Your wrinkled eyes
look straight through me, and
push me into a dark blue lake.

I want to go dumb?
Written by
Satsih Verma
98
 
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