Violent End

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Crush of holy hands 
on blue skin of a flame 
was the wet revenge 
of a withering rose. 

That defiant streak bursts 
with knowledge of a sin. 
White and black, 
this was me and my unwrapped flesh. 

Dirty glory of a monologue 
downs the shutters and takes a plunge 
with a chute into the smoking 
cauldron of a cult. 

In the bed a grave was dug 
deep to bury the ashen virtue 
of a chopped-up moon, 
who had a dream of nonviolence.

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