Dirt Roads

It was a mediocre crowd.
You wanted to touch-
unblemished,
ordinary thing.

After he was drunk
he threw the blanket
and started,
a hate crime.

There was dark smoke
without fire. You can draw
a frame around the singed face.
I will not taste the blood.

The death will come again
to find the lover, after he
jumped from the bridge. There
were thousand ways to seek revenge.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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