Satish Verma, 10 marca 2022
I have become disconnected.
Talking of pose, while shooting
in back, several questions
arise of a staged drama―
missing the lethal word,
releasing the venom.
Poetry of politics becomes evident.
You may spurn the actors,
but the pretence overwhelms.
For testing the secret of depth,
you go down in water
unarmed.
You pull a stretcher, now―
unwrapped. The cremains sink
in the sea― of tears,
unsettling the designed pebbles,
the needles. The tapestry starts burning.
Satish Verma, 9 marca 2022
Barebones, they come
in droves, to drink blood moon
praying in catacombs.
A summer night sets
over the hills with black eyes. The
cleavers have some jobs to be done.
In perfection, the bodies
should be laid― along with red woods.
The autistic moon will find its lover.
Aborted dawn, the clouds
had covered the womb. The
terrible sun had been roped in.
Earth weeps. There was
no peace.A ghost town rumbles
on. I cannot crack the code.
Satish Verma, 8 marca 2022
I had not asked for
all of you,
walking your path
above the clouds.
Do you think, it was
end of beginning?
The republic of sagebrushes has
nothing to say. Incense stops drifting
in desert of crumbs.
You start talking
to your esteem self for the rigged factuality.
I don't want back,
your virginity of first tears.
Underneath lies the stunned poetry
of the bruises.
There were ruthless secrets
inside your lids.
I will not wait for the moon
to go red.
The swastika wants to justify
the chimneys?
Satish Verma, 7 marca 2022
Dismantling―
my temple, brick by brick―
skin to skin,
eye to eye,
before the ascension.
The living legend is
dead. I cannot hear the burial
rites. Walls are rising.
The ashes are strewn
on the eyes of moon. Ages ago I
used to smile. Not now.
Accept me, with all
my non-gifts, dead songs and
wailing prayers.
My hands lift the terror
from the sand, palm leaves
crafting a virgin peace.
Satish Verma, 5 marca 2022
Kiss me hard―
defending your poverty.
It was a flawless depression.
Do not need any sand-storm
to cover the jutting bones.
Time was full of tragedies.
Did you ever hear of―
the fences in a divided house?
The prayers without words?
Drunk in a moonless―
night, of the unheard voices,
you stumble on Ars Poetics.
More wreaths for the
forgotten lover of letters.
Life moves on.
Satish Verma, 4 marca 2022
I paint the day
for you, for the last rites
of sun.
Embracing the dark
to dissolve the boundaries.
I will question, something
else, not about the stoned moon.
The other side of the
thin hijab, was a humiliated truth.
Facts were always knifed.
Something moves
harshly to break the silence.
A pink self betrays the denial.
How mandatory it
was to keep on gooding
the blue flames!
There is no family
of the bohemian.
Satish Verma, 3 marca 2022
Unceremoniously―
you blow off the earthen lamp
after the night vigil.
Still stranger
to dark, you start self-destruction
in holy violence.
Was there any life
before death? You encounter
the crucified truth.
Now you wear the blue lake
to meet the moon―
in a forlorn sky.
I let you see
the falling star. It's heat
had savaged me.
Satish Verma, 2 marca 2022
Can you get the seizing
without an encounter,
like rapture of the deep?
It was me who was lost
in one sultry night,
when jasmine bloomed.
In night blindness, the
trembling soul, landed
on the blue lakes.
You would not look
at me, without alphabets―
in siege.
In contrast we meet―
to hurt each other.
Falling in love after smouldering.
The soot will chase us till the end.
Satish Verma, 1 marca 2022
Walking towards you
prudently, lighting
my bones, like candles
in dark.
For salvation. The
lone cobbler cheats on you.
He has placed the rough bricks
instead of cobblestones to cover
the surface.
Healer has become
avenger. Illicitly― drinks
from the virgin eyes, to
be called a survivor.
The cadaver vanishes.
There was no death of
any Fakir. Only flower bed―
will be the last darshan.
You win the battle, waging
inside you and
forget your name.
Satish Verma, 28 lutego 2022
I will not beg,
never. There were some mistakes.
You took a wrong turn
hitting below the waist.
It was a disaster. Asking
for the moon― for chilling.
Drugs make you unholy―
you try to whack the clouds.
I give, you take. But the
balance still remains. Somewhere
we don't meet and part with
unease of sea waves.
I am loosening the grip on me,
let go the legs to take me
nowhere. Unwrite the poem
meant for you.
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