Mode Of Slaughtering Poem by Satish Verma

Blindfolded I groped,
to cross the line―
not to become carnivore.

The gorge was deep.
I turn cold. The echo of
silence boomed in fatherless
seeds of mercy.

I will warn myself,
and ask why was there transcendence,
when the impulse was
to hang?

Thinking of truth
was difficult. Your footsoles
develop blisters. No home
was in sight.

Accepting the challenge
you start searching the
temples where deities were
dismembered.