The Final Call Poem by Satish Verma

The Final Call



Answers remain elusive.
Stains were on shirt:
You went on wiping-
away the mirror.

Incarcerated,
biologically, he wanted
to get it changed.
The pecking order.

You were trying to
move away,
from yourself. Death
was the missing link.


Was it indecent
to start the self-inventory?
You start dancing
on the inaudible music.

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