Satish Verma, 17 października 2020
Where was the empirical
evidence, that you don't exist?
The vibes were becoming
stronger.
The comb has fallen, and
honeybee feels lése-majeste'.
Where the dots end, a
new line starts.
Adrift. The resistance is gone.
Reflecting on the added
infidelity. You cannot pay homage
to ungraceful exit.
Will you be able to draw
the wages of your life? For the
bread and liberation?
Who was responsible for your falls?
Satish Verma, 16 października 2020
This country divides us.
Only cameos were
displayed.
The ache of the holy river
was your body which
becomes a canoe.
The snow-clad peaks
would smash
the hikers.
Opinions differ,
when the tornado strikes.
You wanted to build a new house.
The black night.
A green silence would
rebel against the stars.
Satish Verma, 15 października 2020
You have to spell it out.
Where the sun sets
in shifting sands?
Picking up the heart rocks-
I was learning to
walk away from undying.
Who would confuse the
infinite falls. There was no conclusion.
Again you come howling,
waiting for the snowmelt from
the face.
The lips become the stones.
You will not count the peaks.
Overnight, it has
turned grey, my red moon.
I will take hold of the night.
There was no referral
of lying truth.
Satish Verma, 14 października 2020
Without trying to become
an avenger,
you were trying to find the-
joy of primitive faith.
The dignity of terror has
to be modified.
You were now afraid of-
yourself in the crowd.
This thing had a dark tone, when
you cross the street.
Underneath, the seed vessels of
past pain, were ready to split open.
The bandits wait on the line
of control. The shock
comes out in open. Society is
generous, accepts your blood.
Satish Verma, 13 października 2020
Far beyond the light years,
I will seek the darkness-
where the hope was born,
and night had the faith.
The trust not betyrayed, become
meniscus, when the crowds
start coming. Dog bitten you scowl.
A half-written poem was ripped away.
An inside truth comes too close
to flames. Something limbless-
moves in empty mind. In the
falling snow a dove flutters like a myth.
Half-truths are touted now as,
a new brand of secular religion.
Something was amiss. Man was
afraid of himself, becoming semi-god.
Satish Verma, 12 października 2020
When I make a heap
of all my killer pains,
rains come.
A half-moon casts
a spell. Hope used to
have many colors.
A black magic
ruffles the feathers, casually.
Peacock forgets to dance.
Rocks. Like rare earths.
Difficult to separate you
from me. The call of the mountain
rattles me again. Will
that continue, unending
path, towards non-existence?
In the dark greens, it
was a murder, I cannot find
the blue moon.
Satish Verma, 11 października 2020
It was a breech birth,
scuttling the forecast,
under water search.
Sad night.
The sand fills your
pockets. You start
licking the salt
jettisoned by violent waves.
Don't focus your mind.
D-Day is drawing near.
No deference to sun.
Unfurl all the sails and ride the breakers.
Satish Verma, 9 października 2020
It was a mixed affair
of love and hate.
You are in deep water
to engage in a dialogue.
Almost farce was the
black ice. Animalism was the-
same. It was murder
in one form or the other.
The landscape would be
remembered for illicit violence.
The virgin sea hides the remains
of midair collision.
The purple men talk of
casualities in war times. The
relocation of peace march was
a big mistake. The vultures-
refuse to move from the trees.
Satish Verma, 7 października 2020
Becoming,
antinormal was not a-
big task, like discovering a new mineral.
It was upside down
a binary star.
Mother and son of morning.
From your absence,
I pick up a poem
and milk the words.
Unlike the purple poesy,
you write,
when the pith becomes the spirit.
The houses set apart
have no boundary layers.
We were immersed in our
strange thoughts.
Satish Verma, 6 października 2020
To skim the sky
like swifts,
when you move away
from yourself.
Holding a four-leaf clover,
night drapes the moon,
taking a lion's share of light
on its wings.
Your full lips defeat
the kisses of incense. I
will come again to
learn Ars poetica.
The fake blooms. I will
never see the death
of a rose petal, skipping
the barbs.
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