Pain Of Hawthorn

Satish Verma

Butchers were in panic. 
The bulls are coming. 

Dandelions were 
in strike mode. 
The Ebola dream 
was competing. 

Nobody there 
sleeps in open. 
The stink of dying 
poems overwhelms. 

Please make a 
self-potrait like 
Rembrandt nude 
without a mirror. 

There was no 
night watch.