Satish Verma, 23 listopada 2018
Take off the glasses and 
look at it closely, the infant 
universe of the ― 
receding age. 
 
I said, weapons should not 
be allowed to speak, cheating 
the all terrain of 
humankind. 
 
The legality has to be 
defined to earn the daily 
bread for impregnable 
hunger. 
 
Whatsoever, there was no 
precedence to take the occult 
into the homes of non- 
committal voices. 
 
You become the temple 
without god, who was 
waiting at the gate.
Satish Verma, 22 listopada 2018
Raising the walls 
around you, you started 
a ritual of placing a single 
rose on the tomb daily. 
 
Trapped in the blues, 
there was a killer instinct 
to destroy the self. 
 
I become a flame, 
passing through the flesh 
eroding the body's mystique. 
 
The ravage words 
now sleep. A dying 
moon will set the 
night free. 
 
It was an invasion by 
deathless roots at night. 
A slow music starts by puppeteers 
to undo the potter's field.
Satish Verma, 21 listopada 2018
The winds ruffle the 
solitude. Sparrows were 
watching me. 
 
* 
 
My name was floating 
in dark. I want to burn the 
book, to throw some light. 
 
* 
 
Violence will toss 
you around, when you 
are wearing the grass.
Satish Verma, 20 listopada 2018
Under the holy basil, 
lighting the earthen lamp, 
whom do you invoke at dusk? 
 
* 
 
A needle pricks your finger. 
You smear the blood 
on your face. 
 
* 
 
It was the flame of forest 
which ignites the path, 
you wanted to tread on.
Satish Verma, 19 listopada 2018
Moon was not faraway. 
It rejected the evidence against the rhyme 
and proceeded to release 
the poem. 
 
The colored bracts of 
bougainvillea, fall solemnly, to kiss 
the grass. Spring was around 
the corner. 
 
Quizzing a stone, a dream 
crashes in my hands; 
becomes a tiger moth and 
settles on your lips. 
 
Future turns into a shell. 
I pick it up from the beach of time. 
Play with it for sometime and 
give it away to my offspring. 
 
It was the beginning. It was the end.
Satish Verma, 17 listopada 2018
A tiny doubt sends out 
the solvos. Self on fire, 
you want to bail out the hierarchy. 
Physically imperfect, a star 
ejects the charged rays. 
 
There was no secret of coronal 
mass. You were taking a dip 
in golden plumes of nirvana. 
No suffering, no remorse. 
A slice of moon will heal. 
 
In your path lies the gray earth. 
Who will incite the ocean now? 
A transient truce will not give 
you the leaping death of 
valley. The clouds will take there own revenge.
Satish Verma, 16 listopada 2018
Unmaking the bond 
between cause and effect. 
You start throwing stones 
as a mark of intimacy. 
 
Ipomea: 
You wanted to learn the 
art of blooming silently 
at dawn. 
 
Huddled like solar flares 
before colliding with 
a drift, you wanted me to live 
for eternity. 
 
Watching sperm dance 
without tails 
in bell jar. 
 
It was barely visible. 
Cultivating a digital entry. 
This was becoming 
a terror-haven.
Satish Verma, 15 listopada 2018
Not begging, 
for a native dream; 
hiding an ocean in the eyes. 
 
The hills were trembling. 
I am going to cross the river, 
of flames. 
 
I am sitting on the dirt floor, 
counting the cowries. 
 
This was my home, 
that was my book. 
 
Playing the game of death. 
 
What had you written, O god 
with your quivering hand. 
I am still following a riderless horse. 
 
Not the least. Any want... 
Give back my blank page.
Satish Verma, 14 listopada 2018
Sailing, 
triangulating the body. 
I will not come for the false blues. 
 
You dig out the bones- 
to evaluate the sickle, 
that failed to trim the dark. 
 
The murder was clean. 
A religion lies beheaded. 
Anaerobic, the poem survived. 
 
The animal smell, 
stays.Overpowers the limbs. 
You run blindfolded. 
 
The crickets emit an omen. 
A sulfur burns. 
The yellow sun was rising.
Satish Verma, 13 listopada 2018
Let the untold suffering 
settle the incompleteness of truth. 
You have to move out― 
making space. 
 
The empty chair fills in 
at dark. I talk to my father, 
daily about the remains of life 
and falling debris. 
 
A son does not want to 
know the futurity. A dazed poet 
will write the history of ruins 
which was younger than memory. 
 
A resilience still brings me 
face to face with the gods of dead souls.
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