Poetry

It slides stealthily in you, the fear
shifting the blame, stoking to run. He said
the wolves are coming. I heard a wailing
sound across the black wall,

I hate you, I hate you. He was crying
and shouting. Why were you so good to
me, why did not you hit me? He started
throwing stones on jasmines –

and then hanged himself with a shoe
lace. Fingerprinting the DNA was inconclusive.
Senseless incarceration, a hidden paranoia,
a tormented soul arrested under the canopy.

Heights, yes heights were responsible for the
fall, for the hurt, for the pain. Could not
stay fearlessly for a long time. Perfection
was the watchword.

Death was the peace.


Satish Verma