Collective Death

I am talking to me
in a muffled tone.
Unhinged, cutting myself.

Murder was shaping. Cheating
oneself. What was the arguement
to concede the religion -

of a no-god? The actuality
of present time? Black magic
was turning human beings into stones.

Amid unrest someone claims
the obscenity of truth.
The torture becomes fearless.

Paired needless stitch the unhealing
wounds. I have left the home
to find the black-hole.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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