Carrying Scars

Satish Verma

The prediction goes awry. 
I wipe away an exotic 
smudge on the paper. 

I was trying to fight 
venom of adverbs and 

I want to retrieve my 
poem, as it was― before 
the digital onslaught of beheadings. 

Give me my garden room, 
baby moon and spotless 
needles. My blood was blind. 

I would come again in 
my burial mode, when 
your trenches are ready.