What Went Wrong?

In twilight, 
the noose tightens�"� 
and shadows start walking 
towards you; to reclaim 
your anonymity�"� 
and declare in deadpan manner: 
the author is dead. 

Your smallness goes 
on sale. You are subjected 
to scrutiny by the small print, but 
the truth escapes from lidless eyes. 

A private punishment. 
There was blood on the knife. 
Why did you write a 
sanguinary poem for your savior today?