WOUNDED PRIDE

Generation grips, 
I am the street 
in dysphoria. 

You run, shout, the arc 
bleeds, you become your enemy 
that kills the alphabets 

A statue was hung 
upside down 
to eject the violence from plastic lips. 

Blood stained sidewalk 
throws a challenge to send 
the skins of martys. 

The taste of endometrium confronts 
a fortune of calories in pink 
for an unconscious hood. 

And the language of golden teeth 
hides the backdoor flight 
of a fallen god.

Satish Verma