Satish Verma, 3 january 2022
Phobia. As it occurred.
Earth was being spread
on the tryst of man.
You won't learn the
life, wearing the veil of death.
That will ditch the destiny.
It was a big question. How to meet you?
One's own beginning was
transient. You will always
imagine the end.
How wrong world was,
when you were stigmatized
for saving the poems?
Give me your fist not the hand.
At least I am not going to be perished.
Long live the Homo.
Satish Verma, 1 january 2022
Fear returns to
glass jars. The generic gap
flutters in narrow
basin.
The caged image. Regency
starts burning. The
divide widens. Your fidgety
fingers roll the stiletto.
Premonition. You condone
the crucifixion, beheadings. I
heal the broken limbs,
punctured hearts.
The striped, elegant walk
on the ramp. I dream of
empty bowls. The rubber
mannequin smiles.
Satish Verma, 31 december 2021
The leaning neck
of the moon, getting
intimate with
a tall pine.
Partheno-sculpting
a protégé, without touching
the essentials.
Somebody waits for your
footfalls. Somebody
loves you without telling.
Like sensory pits
of a viper. I smell
your heat.
The swaying hips
of downing night.
Sun was rising.
Satish Verma, 30 december 2021
In shadows of dawn,
there was no theme―
on way to home.
My agile hands were trying
to find the sins of
unbroken faith.
Will you hold for sometime,
the trembling questions
of my parched lips?
My deepest secret was out. I was
preparing myself in extremis.
Not worth speaking of,
I was changing my path.
You will not cry anytime.
Here goes the culture,
the credence of unbelieving.
Stand by me, when I explode.
Satish Verma, 29 december 2021
A blood retreats―
through the gift of tears.
Pain has no religion.
Why did you search the
truth in ashes?
A command goes waste.
I didn't call a god
for mercy.
The dust leaps for wings.
Rain leaves no scars.
I will come back
to gather the washed bones.
A rusted wound has no thoughts left.
Satish Verma, 28 december 2021
Trying to understand the
impossible, I will
reach for you or your
hidden libido.
Gynaecomastia.
Life span cut short by
despondency. A woman
speaks for sex change.
Poverty of thoughts, and―
death of a theme. It
was the one-way street in a
ghost town.
Something to serve in
the way of courtesy, when
you start imploding
to celebrate the arrival of ash.
Satish Verma, 27 december 2021
Do you know my
love, where the road ends
I will meet you
one day.
Life had been always angry
with me. Sometimes I would
sit quietly, doing nothing, and
looking at the hanging―
earlobes of Buddha.
Cannot hone my thoughts,
how to stop the violence.
The Sunday moon―
cracks open like a cotton flower.
The vandals,
I am done with. The headstones
separate the faiths. It was
a punishment.
O bronzed man, don't
hide the gold.
Satish Verma, 26 december 2021
Dying was not worth
living. Your journey
starts for unknown.
Why were you fixated to
watch the small men―
milk the moon?
It was very expensive to
buy a decent death.
Religion makes it dirty.
Do you remember the myth
of Sisyphus? I love to
carry my rock without a face.
Not quality of life. It
was a matter of degrees
when you feel liberated.
Satish Verma, 25 december 2021
Dying was not worth
living. Your journey
starts for unknown.
Why were you fixated to
watch the small men―
milk the moon?
It was very expensive to
buy a decent death.
Religion makes it dirty.
Do you remember the myth
of Sisyphus? I love to
carry my rock without a face.
Not quality of life. It
was a matter of degrees
when you feel liberated.
Satish Verma, 23 december 2021
Do you know the
truth of lies, when
something goes wrong?
You pick up the names
from private dialogues,
to hurt yourself.
Increasingly on edge,
You release the―
doves, to reach the affiliates.
To buy some time
for a debate, I put
off all the lamps.
Why the amnesia,
becomes a blessing in
celebrating the mass beheadings?
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