Numberless Crimes Poem by Satish Verma
Numberless Crimes
I was badly shaken―
by the strange
gene expression.
When a bullet―
made a hole in your chest,
blood spilled on my book.
Ultra-conformist,
plummets to a new low.
You would not alter
like the moon's pain
and sun's tears.
Coming to a critical
threshold, when we talk
about the death.
I would say god
was the killer.
Monday, December 19, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/26/2024 12:26:36 AM # 1.0.0.1119
