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By Satish Verma | Category :: Poem

I was worried.
A deviant had lost the shape,
and had thrown a word at your face.

The black name was crawling
on the white paper. It was not
a rape, but the abduction―
of a mystic.

The snake time. Politics.
The crowd was celebrating the death.
What would you say, death
had many names?

I want to sleep with you tonight,
O moon. The slave
had become the master.

By Satish Verma | Nov 12, 2017 | Category > Poem >Life | Comments | Views 175


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