Satish Verma, 21 czerwca 2020
Unstable like a mercury
drop, when you hold
a pen, hiding your
icy thoughts.
Like an archer, ready
to abandon the bow, without
shooting at the target.
The bull's eye was a
blue rose, sitting in the dark
niche, afraid of light.
In synesthesia, of
nights assault, you fume
and sizzle, when the dew
drops hit you.
You will not give the name
of slayer, who killed you with a smile.
Satish Verma, 20 czerwca 2020
Put a candle under
the rose bush.
I am going to draw blood
from the moon.
See my body has become
a boat and you are the sea.
I am an opus Dei
and you are my deity.
We mist and we rain
on our frailties. The drama
unfolds, when we grieve
for the butterflies.
Who was taller than
our sins? Like pixies
falling from the skies.
Satish Verma, 19 czerwca 2020
O pathfinder,
you wanted to leave unsung.
One day I will track down your footmarks.
Last night I understood
the unholy drowning of the truth,
before the priests of innocent surrender.
Jealousy was the secret of
downfall.You can use the parenthesis now
to defend the corporate
blunders.
Politics has become a
grammar to cheat the morphology
of gospels.
Do not go like naked truth
in the crowd.I wanted back
my eyebaths to see clearly.
The gap between the lips
was widening..
Satish Verma, 18 czerwca 2020
You had left me reeling
under the bluebells,
like a trembling leaf, like wheels
in human conflict.
Trying to learn the democracy
of honeybees, like the
cohesiveness of fireants,
Handcuffed, staying in
solitary confinement, hitting at
the walls. Chipping away
the ungrateful.
The triage will leave me
unattended. The road...
do you think, it will be visible?
The stars will listen,
night will not.
Satish Verma, 17 czerwca 2020
It was not the worth
of a cloud,
your garden, sitting
on the lake.
Refresh drops, in the
dry eyes of the rope, which was
wounding around your neck
like a snake.
You want to become
a blue god now, on
opioids. A living ruin, attracting
the tourists.
The terrible change,
we are dragging our dead body
under the shadow of
the toes.
Satish Verma, 16 czerwca 2020
You tell me in no
ambiguity to hold on the solitude.
Life was overrating the return
of a prodigal saint.
In wet distance
would you plant the seeds
of spiritual lockup?
Was it not two timing?
Riding on the waves
and starting roots music?
Shot in the back
of head, you wanted to die quickly
being sincere towards life.
Self-abandonment,
it were you, which was, for
what it was not.
I am counting the tongues
of flames, licking
the acid burned virtues.
Satish Verma, 15 czerwca 2020
I like to rage on with
flying snakes. The fog deepens.
You skid on the ice of the bridge
after the freezing rain. Infidelity
becomes the pick of the day. I
look at my Goldie, the pug,
sitting on the step. Waiting for me
like a meditating Buddha, eyes
half-closed.
Let me see your hands. Your
bones are becoming frail, twisted.
You cannot lift the book, hold
the pen. When you write, your hands
start trembling, as if you are
being watched, to write your last
will or ready to jump in the river.
Life had been very cruel.
When you said, you are a dervish,
the hyenas started laughing.
Satish Verma, 14 czerwca 2020
He has been spoken off.
Sometimes I feel,
it is time to go.
Sun is preparing to depart.
After sometime moon will arrive.
You want to stop writing
and shut the book. Enough.
All things said, world will go on its way.
You change the clothes,
alter the sex,
exchange the god,
and refuse to die.
Nothing, but the dirty game survives.
Satish Verma, 13 czerwca 2020
Awakened
at the partition.
Left bleeding, the spider silk
had started weaving
the web.
I am trying to understand,
the sign language,
your tears.
You have to become
transparent.I have not
crossed the river yet.
Words not weapons
were needed to heal after
the cannibalism.
This world will
spare us in night.
Trajectory of moon
was changed.
Satish Verma, 12 czerwca 2020
Cupping the water in hand,
you feel the nativity-
near the mute swans.
The silence of a bird, explodes
before it flies.
The hands flutter in excitement.
You take a cipher to
measure the infinity. Figures
become drones. One of the
suspect throws a bomb.
The quietness of sea, when
you start drinking the mist.
I will discover the beauty of death.
The words will reach,
when you would not listen.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności | Kontakt
Copyright © 2010 truml.com, korzystanie z serwisu oznacza akceptację regulaminu.
14 października 2024
zgodnieYaro
14 października 2024
To ma być kaszka?Jaga
14 października 2024
Laranjasam53
14 października 2024
1410wiesiek
14 października 2024
Jesień - niby kolorowo,Eva T.
14 października 2024
112Marek Gajowniczek
14 października 2024
OgromBelamonte/Senograsta
13 października 2024
Jesień zaczyna się wierszemsam53
13 października 2024
W deszczu spadających ptakówArsis
13 października 2024
Lustrovioletta