What Went Wrong?

In twilight,
the noose tightens?
and shadows start walking
towards you; to reclaim
your anonymity?
and declare in deadpan manner:
the author is dead.

Your smallness goes
on sale. You are subjected
to scrutiny by the small print, but
the truth escapes from lidless eyes.

A private punishment.
There was blood on the knife.
Why did you write a
sanguinary poem for your savior today?