Satish Verma, 7 maja 2021
Night begins
the self-discovery
with green and cream pills.
A binary existence
you would love to
break the myth.
The wind in the sails,
you are going―
nowhere in darkness.
All colors of―
midnight moon,
were for you.
Time will meet―
you in different masks,
to find the truth.
Satish Verma, 6 maja 2021
Begins to reel,
the dusk,
down the street.
The grey moon waits,
solemnly, for the
music of earth to start.
There is enigma―
in dark. You see
the inside of a shut house.
Like the stone
eyes reading the heliograph
of shrunken gods.
Plunged into a gorge
your eyes, to find
the secret of a fall.
Satish Verma, 5 maja 2021
The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.
Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.
How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?
The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.
Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.
Satish Verma, 4 maja 2021
Cessation had no direct threats.
You had stopped thinking.
A shadowy future starts hating
you and your financial motives.
The September light falls on leaves
ready to go, yellow-brown-red.
You are still warm, still receptive
of the hollyhocks to welcome you.
A guiltless flight with singing birds―
homing to their mating abodes.
You want to arrive
without qualms, without fainting.
Satish Verma, 3 maja 2021
How will you be defining
a war, when you
meet without machetes?
Between real and fiction
lies a deficient bridge.
We will go for a walk to find―
the weak spots.
A dead city moves in its
entirety. You prepare yourself
to read the tea leaves.
The dregs were in power.
Why you were becoming schizophrenic?
Do not blow at the dead sparks.
How long the shadow now
you want to throw?
Satish Verma, 1 maja 2021
Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.
Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.
It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.
Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.
Satish Verma, 30 kwietnia 2021
A textual study
of pain and bliss.
I was coming for a reprisal
from a temporal crisis
of intimacy.
Always gnawing at me,
the roll down from
love to hate. Which was
impersonating what, like
a talking parrot?
Soft murder. You will
half-die, poker-faced in
grey night under the full moon,
holding a poem
written for a black sun.
I shall never get
over my dilemma.
Satish Verma, 29 kwietnia 2021
Whoso stills the
thunder, it was difficult
for you to lift yourself.
A failed past was―
asking for a date
with destiny.
What your gut bacteria
would say, when
it is raining hot kisses?
I extricate myself
from the shelled house
of pride against the risk.
Should I prepare myself
for the worst? Midnight
syndrome will attract the moths?
Satish Verma, 28 kwietnia 2021
Butchers were in panic.
The bulls are coming.
Dandelions were
in strike mode.
The Ebola dream
was competing.
Nobody there
sleeps in open.
The stink of dying
poems overwhelms.
Please make a
self-potrait like
Rembrandt nude
without a mirror.
There was no
night watch.
Satish Verma, 27 kwietnia 2021
He used to dream
of date palms, covering
the defended wounds.
The scoli crab after
the fall will stay. It will
not change the referendum.
The neuter will not
form the trinity. I will
not hear the signals.
Night was not yet
dark to explore the moon.
My stars remain faded.
O country, the people
O planets, the goddess
of rape is dead.
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