NOT SINNED

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Were very hot, trembling thighs 
like in frying pan, you sizzled 
looking around for ladders. 

Then you crashed on the charged 
net like a mosquito, exploding 
in white flame- tip, tip-top. 

Pungent smoke rises, of 
smoldering flesh. I was afraid 
of drums, the fierce sounds. 

Your song has been left behind. 
Stolen piece. Love has become a 
terror asking for ransom. 
Living fossil. Taking it all, you did't 
deserve the garbage. The string 
of wasted years.