My Injured Self

Satish Verma

In your big eyes 
my mission ends. 
I lower the flag to half-mast. 

The steps were small 
to follow the footprints 
of the demise of an affair. 

Embracing the words, 
you had felt pampered by 
the demigoddess 
of broken hills. 

The white muslin, weaves into a wreath; 
would be laid on the unbuttoned secrets. 

The night watchman 
stands guard till the last 
candle burns out.