The Gutsy Call

You punish yourself for not becoming a naught. The triumph had destroyed you completely. A seductive purr of a surrogate write, wants to lift your parameters without attribution. A vague integrity was choking the vitals. The defeat was within. You failed to accept the judgement. Rendered clean after the bristled attack, your shirt does not show stains of slurred concentrate. The guilt was not the same. It was the ephemeral moon. Night was not going to wait. I was not ready to sin. Satish Verma