Satish Verma > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

You always speak from the eyes.

It was me. Real not surrogate,

The wayward words will not make any difference.

Like a birthmark you will remain

Was it too late to find out, who was

In a cruel joke, the torturer becomes

Treading― through self, you will

I let it go, sometimes my unborn poem―

Like a snake girl, the black tresses trailing

Way off at point-of-no-return, my geometry,