Satish Verma

You went tounveil your own 
statue, before being shot― 
dead, for telling the fiction. 

Day was stranger than 
night. You can discern 
the oblique faces. 

Handcuffed, you pick up 
the pen, to rewrite the name 
of omniabsent divine. 

Trivial rise of surface 
temperature will melt 
the snow-clad breasts. 

A clove-scented pink― 
in the hands of a butcher 
does not bring a smile.