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
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