Coming Under The Wheels Poem by Satish Verma

Highly vitiated was
your kitchen. I assume
I was dead on your table.

The halo was fading.
Stage was set for a showdown
between the believer and the iced river.

The red carpet had been
folded. Chief guest― the black
death of sun was not coming.

There would be no
ceremony to alleviate the
aches of separation.

I may resume my
journey to deep ocean, now
since you are flying wingless broom..

The ants have found the carcass.