What A Wrath

Another woman
sits on rose hips
and talks about the spirits.

At sunset point,
I watch you undress,
in fading moon.

I would be talking
to the heap of my failures
for the sake of my touchdown.

There was no looking back
in dim light, when―
you were colorblind.

The arrow tip was
dipped in curare.
It goes straight into the beast.

Satish Verma