Satish Verma, 22 lipca 2018
Knife for knife.
Shadows were chasing,
the slain.
Flawed, you were
at wrong place at the
wrong time.
You need to learn, how
to die anonymously.
It was always extreme.
The temper, the love,
the hate.
You could offer yourself
for idiopathic study.
A trail of broken limbs
partially leads to truth.
Adrenaline can cause
you to shut the mouth.
The organized violence, ultimately
triumphs.
Satish Verma, 21 lipca 2018
Like runaway water
you run to meet your lover,
the death.
The hidden story,
spurts many questions.
You want the
severed head of the pen
back, to write the destiny.
The savage resurgence
of abducting-
the aurorean light,
will demand a
heavy price, since the
cease-fire had melted down.
The lotus-eaters
will decide to open
the scars.
Satish Verma, 20 lipca 2018
It was a turf war.
The moon was booby-trapped
by clouds.
*
An electronic
claws holds you to the
chest of night.
*
From flesh
to flesh, I surrender
my nomadic spirit.
Satish Verma, 19 lipca 2018
While I limp,
a schizo runs parallel with the moon.
Climbs the hill
to sort out the night. Terror.
The shadows were fighting. The lost innocence.
Delta was forked, dividing the pain. Sensuous
bliss rising, falling.
Where will you go now? Billions of planets wait for your arrival. Einstein
was calling you again.
The shards of moon were waterborn
reflecting in your eyes.
Satish Verma, 18 lipca 2018
A decapitated
thought, writes a new scribble
on the sands.
*
There were dark
footprints of a seagull
on the white beach.
*
I am sitting
on the bank, counting
the beating waves.
Satish Verma, 17 lipca 2018
In fending off, the questions,
after mutilation,
a maverick was asking,
would you go beyond the species?
Escape was not an
abstract. It was a concrete evidence
against the bleed and hurt.
Invocation was becoming absolute necessity.
The poetry of death has
many stanzas. The tribe wants
it share, but I will write
about the beauty of dying sun.
Silence was a true poem.
You speak some inaudible words.
Satish Verma, 16 lipca 2018
Afraid to ask, the white
fingers, to write a name on black paper.
The milky way.*Janus will
trap the light and open the doors.
War of words was not
going to stop. The alphabets do─
not pronounce well. The─
rape, the brutality, the mutilated death?
The mother tongue weeps.
The masks will write a history, in exile.
Throwing the coins? The
real face becomes a poem, lifting the wrists.
Satish Verma, 14 lipca 2018
Living the moment
without participation.
Not accepting the liberation.
I will call you when
earth starts weeping.
Someone lights a match
in dark, to see the rim
of black hole. A
suspension bridge hangs
between the tunnel of lies.
The uncertain tomorrow
and truncated present.
The life breaks the relationship
between fire and rain. Now
you invoke the black cloud.
The mania. You are shoved
on the tracks before incoming
electric wheels. This was
democracy on move pushing
the entrails out.
Satish Verma, 13 lipca 2018
Defining the borders
with guilds,
a body hangs on a rope
mauled and fabled.
I am making a fool of myself
to find your hand.
Watching the world upside down,
the ailing Buddha─
was dying. I don't own the day.
Tomorrow will not remain yours.
Satish Verma, 12 lipca 2018
Only by accident you
will find life in
the dead elephant.
We start soul-searching
to uncover,
the hidden path to─
landlocked sea of poachers
of ivory truth.
Infant cries, sleeping
in grass, wait for the
blossoms of spring.
Like a panther
a red cloud descends
to kill the moving, play
without pain.
The nightfall,
when you will discover
yourself in grief
and wait for the sun.
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