Satish Verma, 26 november 2021
Ah, the statecraft of
present times, was becoming
agender.
The strength of institution
would lie in old oil paintings.
You become stupid
and start living in dark rooms
to understand the sun.
Half-beliefs were―
cooked straight from the
sermons of striped coats.
The delusion was
simple. There was camphora
to revive the fainting glory.
Satish Verma, 24 november 2021
There was no respite
from the repeated assaults.
When did I ask you to move
slitherly with words?
A straight delivery
was needed to refrain after
the collective suicide.
There was a conspiracy theory
that a super moon was
going to drown you
in honey.
Now you come back
to seek pardon and then
start destroying the truths
with impunity.
It was an intrigued
home coming
with braided locks.
Satish Verma, 23 november 2021
A lesser person walks
in the dead man's street
to meet his metastasized
oncocytes to,
kill for the sake of kill,
death for a song that was
not there.
And you will keep wearing
the explosive vest
which will not go off.
Luteum. The color of
spring spreads. No prolactin.
Milk has dried up,
and so the tears in the eyes.
Satish Verma, 22 november 2021
Your face becomes
an eye, a saga of
holding the assaults.
A body hails
the sagacity.
A child becomes a man
away from home
of truths, god forbids.
The innocence gives
rise to a mound of bones.
Death lingers to
take revenge.
Brutality breeds
brutality. Can anyone
break this cycle by giving
one's life after receiving the award?
Satish Verma, 21 november 2021
It was a direct hit,
meeting an immaculate
moon tonight.
Was it possible― that
a star flew off the sky
to undo something?
I was the mist,
and I was the sun.
Describing the accident―
not the truth.
The molester.
Time, steps out taking a big
chunk of life.
Unhinged, a messiah
drops dead―
at the door of equity.
How vain, was the
ego of man!
Satish Verma, 20 november 2021
Talking to Morpheus
when moon was asleep.
I was not guilty of
waking you up.
In splinters, the man
goes deaf and dumb.
A violin was thrown
on the track to stop the music.
Death becomes a finger,
points at you.
The rodes become blind.
There was no D-Day for exit.
Satish Verma, 19 november 2021
A blighted ovum
demands a ransom for life.
Unhinged, you rub with―
the command and
set free a poem.
Some very visceral fears
hold your hand and
ask to write an epitaph
of yourself.
Unboiling the egg in
irreverent manner, you
proceed to make death,
out of eternal entangled questions.
The sheer stress unmakes
you into a creator
and you begin to spawn
a new religion of violence.
Satish Verma, 18 november 2021
Will I know you―
by unknowing myself in bleak―
moments of giving
wings to you?
Raising your legacy; losing
my words, I block
a masterstroke. Something
was wrong. I was walking alone.
Disrobing a covered
statue, the anguish of
incorrectness hangs.
Enduring a song of―
drums, calling the sun from clouds
for a wounded earth.
What was truth
in jungle of beasts? Any
humming left on the lips of trees?
Satish Verma, 17 november 2021
An earthy scent
rises, when―
you rain in me.
The hole in
heart. Naked
as salt of eyes.
My roving boat
sinks near
the banks of ashes.
Pure and white
like snow
you fall on my lips.
Satish Verma, 16 november 2021
It is.
What you don't think,
and don't want to share. Nothing.
Kamikaze― divine wind
destroying your crotch.
Saffron― dried stigmas.
The hiss of a dead shake,
kitchen's flavor for celibates.
Many roads to reach
the mannequins. God is
one. Hydra's tentacles catch
the believers.
Unwholesome.
I won't taste the violence
of celestial bamboos.
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