Pain Killer Poem by Satish Verma
Pain Killer
A city dies in me
anacephalic.
A white sheet spreads/
blinding.
You don’t feel the epidural.
Untitled, death walks/
like a whore/
contamination of inbreeding.
Recycled pain
hurts again. You want
to give a stillbirth
over the dense-packed nettle.
First birthday of a dream.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: birthday,city
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8/10/2026 6:31:39 AM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
