Satish Verma, 30 maja 2019
Moving on death trek, 
standing near the stonehenge, 
the hunger for immortality 
begins to kill. 
 
The summer solstice is there. 
It could hinge on the bones. 
Sometimes it takes all your life 
to know what do you want? 
 
Somatic. The flesh refuses to 
go down on the divine path. 
The urge was very strong 
to go hegemonic. 
 
Blue stones, walk with pagans 
and druids were coming back. 
I am not sure whom do I believe 
I start an inward odyssey again.
Satish Verma, 29 maja 2019
Waiting for a supermoon 
like Aphrodite. 
I translate my twinge 
into moonlight. 
 
The speed now hurts. 
I want to go slow in dark, 
Like wayward feet ambulating towards a carnivore. 
 
It was not fair to call for 
the soft snow, 
when my eyes start 
surging like a natural spring. 
 
You had almost eaten me 
alive with black fingers. 
I did not sin, you come like 
thunder making me deaf.
Satish Verma, 27 maja 2019
Distrust prevails. 
To be poor. Why did you need 
less, than you want? 
 
I will ask me, and get no 
answer. Like hedgehog. Spiny 
coat. You will not watch― 
 
the thought coming. I do 
not move. The dead horse 
speaks of moments of stillness. 
 
A perception cleaves the mind. 
The world takes revenge 
behind the glass. You were― 
 
squirming in the vessel. What 
was your name, among the 
stumps? A cloudburst, wipes 
 
out the deity. The walls 
stand out in the death masks.
 
Satish Verma, 26 maja 2019
Taking the drugs in heavenly 
night. It is very precarious state 
to live innocently. 
 
The petals fall on your brows. 
You are not ready to meet the stigma. 
Pistil was wary of the human touch. 
 
Neoplastic. I wanted a botanical 
end. Like evening primrose, a 
yellow death facing the sun. 
 
The opal effect. You were changing 
colors. A precious sin to become 
a saint. Who is going to be a scapegoat? 
 
The bankruptcy. Uncertainty will 
overwhelm the haze. Stay indoors. 
You will not be able to make a speech.
Satish Verma, 25 maja 2019
The blue veins, 
defending brazenly 
the pink gloves. 
 
Unwedded to moon, 
I become sick 
of hypocricy of hands. 
 
As the boulders slide 
on chest, to unbring the infancy 
of snowfall. I put my shovel down. 
 
Was it too early to start 
the game pf ravishing 
the temple of stains? 
 
Looking at the pillars 
that would not hold the 
ceiling, inviting the moment’s eternity.
Satish Verma, 22 maja 2019
Deserting a shrine, in the swirling 
waters, I move, unbuilding 
a path, under the shade of the moon. the 
sprawling village has been swept off/and 
so were the ponyriders; 
a lifeless symphony of howling winds/ 
scatters the silence. 
 
I step forward to meet the vapors 
of after death./The souls are dead/ 
and the ghosts are walking in dark. 
No ignition was left to recognize the faces. 
No god was seen nearby. 
 
I am at loss to make the return journey. 
A boulder as big as the temple/ 
obstructs the view. There are moaning 
voices/coming from under the sunk 
houses. Why won’t the unseen hands/build 
up a bridge. I eat your words 
and go in trance. 
 
Where are the bottle’s jinnees now?
Satish Verma, 21 maja 2019
A dark secret 
of double standard, 
releases the hidden forces. 
 
You must 
bend backward to walk. 
This was the rape of surrender. 
 
The art of dodging, 
the decoy effect. 
You choose the ultimate hypocrisy. 
 
You do not confirm 
the rage of shirtless. 
A name goes begging for the figures. 
 
Shrine in mud, 
will give you a final call 
before starting the builddown.
Satish Verma, 20 maja 2019
Don’t let me go. 
over the cork, a bottle 
fights for the fluids 
to flow out. 
 
No apology to 
feel you. There was 
no death in the night. 
A sun lies down beside me. 
 
The flesh was disappearing. 
A blue star alights, 
to make a landmark 
for the climbers. 
 
No regrets 
for the crunch of dry leaves 
when you walk on the 
grave of the witch doctor.
Satish Verma, 19 maja 2019
Since my ash has 
blown in your mirror 
I am warming up to your surrogacy. 
 
Too much deep, 
expansive cleavage. I am climbing 
 
down a canyon. 
 
The phoenix: 
finds the water― 
in your eyes. 
 
Writes a funeral. 
 
No punctuation, the 
unwritten poet, 
will not last the night. 
 
I am spelling out 
the grief of the lonely man on 
the deserted road, talking 
incoherently.
Satish Verma, 18 maja 2019
Talk of politics, 
and the auction begins. 
 
Every rock has a price. 
The marble will fetch more flesh. 
 
The granite breaks below 
your eyes. I limit the tears. 
 
No time left for complaints. 
I am ready for the good –bye. 
 
Will you meet me beyond 
the space, faraway in void? 
 
No words will follow me 
I am going unwritten. 
 
No profile, no editing. 
A bloom will pop up, from 
below the fallen tree.
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