My Map Burns Poem by Satish Verma
My Map Burns
Brooding. It was a dark
secret. You wanted to catch perfection,
Trying to temper my wrongs.
Whole and complete, you
will never find out the morals and faults
Only you fear a prophet. I sort animals
Your life was always a
slaughterhouse. Nobody was saved.
I bleed daily to give the answer.
Wednesday, September 13, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: animals
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8/28/2026 12:04:06 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
