satishverma

Infinite Loss

Small truths 
of gun battle, 
with black roses in hands, 
beg for peace. 

You fly with broken wings, 
and fall like a damp squib. 

The darkened facts 
in outsized pain, want to 
revert back to line of separation. 

How will you enter 
into the sinless book to find 
the words of a prophet? 

Nothing was personal. 
I have come to you― 
to complain about you. 

Your wrinkled eyes 
look straight through me, and 
push me into a dark blue lake. 

I want to go dumb?



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