Satish Verma

As I accept the verdict, 
the dead-soul beast― 
jumps up, draws out the sword 
and starts cutting the drift. You shout, 
wake up from a nightmare. 

The words had betrayed. Vowel 
harmony was gone. Voice hoarse, you 
stammer, accusing the city, the country 
the century. 

It was consensual. The suicide pact. 
Cloth and body, print and color. 
Paper and pen, bed and grave. The 
moon had kicked out the feline. 

The insomnia, now rules. You 
start counting the sins. No stress, 
no indecency, sleeping with 
dead poems. A big explosion changes the fonts. 

You go into long sleep.