A. V. Koshy writes

Terror

The history of killing is not 

the history of dying
I too have hailed myself
on a lonely street
told myself stories
stories no one wanted to listen to
Guilt spread like perfume on a handkerchief
Most of the cloth got wet
I became afraid of crowds
walked on through empty streets
empty corridors
empty football stadiums
theatres, empty music halls
places of worship
where I could not meet my killers
or kill
only hear the sound no man can hear
time scurrying by on the feet of cockroaches
It was groups I was staying away from
and mobs
but that left me lonely
so I searched for more love
though I had never lacked being loved
I did not know any more
what I was searching for
having been corrupted
by the desire to not be a part of mankind
as much pride as the desire to be part of its killing hordes
but it was so difficult 

to not be
led astray by my desires
Now I wait for the event horizon
knowing it does not alight
on the backs of
the ones whom I want it to
for them to come and pull me out
but silence is the only hand that extends
to make one wait and watch out for what it portends.