Sharp Murals
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.
Satish Verma
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