What A Wrath

Satish Verma

Another woman 
sits on rose hips 
and talks about the spirits. 

At sunset point, 
I watch you undress, 
in fading moon. 

I would be talking 
to the heap of my failures 
for the sake of my touchdown. 

There was no looking back 
in dim light, when― 
you were colorblind. 

The arrow tip was 
dipped in curare. 
It goes straight into the beast.