NOT SINNED

Were very hot, trembling thighs
like in frying pan, you sizzled
looking around for ladders.

Then you crashed on the charged
net like a mosquito, exploding
in white flame- tip, tip-top.

Pungent smoke rises, of
smoldering flesh. I was afraid
of drums, the fierce sounds.

Your song has been left behind.
Stolen piece. Love has become a
terror asking for ransom.
Living fossil. Taking it all, you did't
deserve the garbage. The string
of wasted years.

Satish Verma