Baked Tragedy Poem by Satish Verma
Baked Tragedy
It was a waste.
The mantel was too sharp
for the dying words.
Will not give a call.
I was angry with me.
Your skin wearing
on my hands,
O god I want to undo
my sins.
It hurts me,
whena praying mantis
keeps a watch.
I have defeated myself.
Very proud, an instinct
prepares me
for blue burns.
You will never know yourself.
A thick pain drips
from the swollen eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/6/2024 1:40:10 AM # 1.0.0.1119
