Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Death of a Poet

A poet died one moon
night. On the august streets
of  Colaba. There was no blood
only a splattering of verses
like a staccato against the
lit tar. A BMW hit him
just when he was pinning
an image to earth. Lay bare
for the world to see. Finally he
got published. Till the morning
Vultures arrived and picked 
the streets clean.

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