Sharp Murals Poem by Satish Verma

Nevermore you will talk
of the forked tongue.
The genie was out─
in the jungle of legs.

Hunger was in plain sight.
You were wary of the wild─
dogs hounding at your gate.
An augury of some spilled blood?

Lachrymal, the soot trickles
down from the black eyes on─
the marbled breast of a lone
survivor in the city of tombs.

Exhume you must the naked
truth? I will not ask the name
of the ravisher, in this crowd
of fast disappearing shoes.