satishverma

Baked Tragedy

It was a waste.
The mantel was too sharp
for the dying words.

Will not give a call.
I was angry with me.

Your skin wearing
on my hands,
O god I want to undo
my sins.

It hurts me,
whena praying mantis
keeps a watch.

I have defeated myself.

Very proud, an instinct
prepares me
for blue burns.
You will never know yourself.

A thick pain drips
from the swollen eyes.



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