Where Will It End

Satish Verma

In deep depression, 
clearing the emotional debris, 
when your eyes speak― 
I become dumb. 

The skin mood alters. 
Love was not racial. 
A naked paper writes your will― that, 
you no more belong to anyone. 

Going down, down― 
the man's ego. I stand on crossroads, 
still undecided, your lips 
white, eyes red. 

The reapers will come again 
to harvest the skulls, to 
make necklaces. The greed wants 
the biggest garland. 

Stings are a plenty.