Satish Verma, 9 december 2022
The inscribed stone
winks at moon to compare
smudges on face.
*
I ask myself to know
thyself. Life will smell the blood,
of what hurt your dream.
*
Will not erase your
name from jessamine.
Winter always waits.
Satish Verma, 7 december 2022
A grim reminder.
Ah! the lunar cycle again
hurts. Candle burns at―
*
both the ends. Book
was closed for eternity.
Red moon bleeds.
*
I dip my fingers in
moonlight to smeat your
memories silver.
Satish Verma, 5 december 2022
One day in a dream,
I will ask the deity of ancient
temple, why did you father―
*
the elephantine
blunder of creating universe
to destroy it again?
*
I was also the builder
of bold world on the paper
for nightingale.
Satish Verma, 3 december 2022
Not accepting death,
eyes search in dark, the meaning
of the salvation from―
*
coming and going.
What were your thoughts when it
rained in lightning?
*
Would you climb again
to prayers that were soundless
and wordless in eyes?
Satish Verma, 2 december 2022
Vision impaired.
The fear crawls in your poems―
for lynx-eyed words.
*
Hounded light wears
a mask to rip off the thespian.
Time was my collateral.
*
Who was the reddest in―
rose, blaze and ruby? Will you
pick the color for me?
Satish Verma, 1 december 2022
How would you talk to―
your unborn child, when lynching
mobs were waiting?
*
The insider was pure.
Still unknown to blood moon.
That was my other flesh.
*
Swallow all the darkness
of crying earth, I impel your
nails to scratch the sun.
Satish Verma, 30 november 2022
Retrieve the ancient
mantra to invoke wandering
spirit of Agni.
*
Let the time burn
in crucible of fair pain to
test nugget's glitter.
*
Still virgin's book was
untouched― unopened
to redeem the words!
Satish Verma, 29 november 2022
If there was nothing
to chance at, we will not quit.
I won't see your hands.
*
Pulverized faith
seeks a new name to survive.
Prophets are dead.
*
Would you bow down
to collect the dust falling from
tresses of goddess?
Satish Verma, 28 november 2022
An ailing sun.
I grieve for a lost song
unheard in rains.
*
The kneaded flesh
of a weeping star pulsates
on the split grains.
*
Let the mother resolve,
who was the immortal son
of the bruised earth.
Satish Verma, 27 november 2022
That appears my last
race, though sun refuses to set.
Ablaze steals the moment.
*
It comes apart;
the surrogacy of imperfect―
seeds of love and hate.
*
Dry leaves of a tree
will not carry the message of
a beautiful lake.
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