Satish Verma, 4 lutego 2022
Under the jacaranda tree,
near the fragrant trunk,
lies a sheet of blue trumpet―
shaped flowers.
You are home, near
the lotus feet of marbled
Buddha, standing erect.
You are walling in
Agni's wrath, with wild thoughts.
The somatization becomes very unkind.
It foretells the reality.
Curves take you to lakes. You read more
of the depth of water.
What was the avant-garde
of new age, against
the tight lips of crusade?
Satish Verma, 3 lutego 2022
Completely broke,
an empty glass, wants
to drink from your eyes.
Validity was incredible
between the silence
of centuries.
Give back my nowness.
Future had migrated into past.
Moon will not rise
for me.
Where was the apotheosis
of my defeats? Any extra
kiss of fireflies was not sufficient.
I will write my own
end in your hands, when
sun brings down the flame.
To sin with the invisible,
had become a liberation.
Satish Verma, 2 lutego 2022
Waiting for the unwaiting
to appear. The green pigeons
will reduce the palace to rubble.
Could it be like― the
first man to die has become
a savior?
I hold your tender
face in my hands to
read the axioms.
Mumbling something―
Inaudible, I will address,
the upright past.
An unborn love child
Kicks at the walls of the womb.
It was time to see the world.
Satish Verma, 1 lutego 2022
Moon injured―
after reaching climax.
At the death of a poem
nobody was ready to climb the pyre.
A collapsed river was
sleeping in your eyes. I will
come and wake up the sun.
Now I am melting.
Some troubling signs were there.
You were becoming vulnerable,
if the rock cried. And you
wanted to die in my arms.
O brute, cold-blooded
murderer, the shadow of the comet
was lengthening. I don't
want any roses for funeral.
A self-image had the last laugh.
Satish Verma, 31 stycznia 2022
From uncultured to
subcultured, I was made to―
feel responsible.
My coffers remained
empty. The nightmares had
squirreled away my peace.
And I was always
steeling for a reply. Embracing
the dark woods for support.
Everyday you changed
the mask to become innocent,
separating the sparks from the ash.
Paralysed like sea―
anemone without water. The
sea had receded in haste.
Satish Verma, 30 stycznia 2022
I am the circumference
and I am the center.
My math has failed.
Snooping at your dark gods,
the pi fumbles. Reverse
osmosis starts.
After lynching the saint
you put him on pedestal.
The frenzy, the blaze, and mayhem begins.
The portrait of the fugitive
was incomplete. Lilies
drop the colors and become nuns.
The cage becomes bigger.
You leave the salt. Tears
with laughter would do.
Satish Verma, 28 stycznia 2022
Like a virgin birth,
a poem floats
without any pain.
Superimposes, as if
on a face, like Mona Lisa,
with her mysterious smile,
longing a release from
the cycle of rebirth.
Are you going to reperform
for me, your silent
surrender, bewildering
a lost pilgrim?
Will you become a
sitter like a moon-faced, veiled
by crying clouds? I had been
trying to touch your lips, eyes.
This vicious assault
was for me. Stony eyes, and
the striking hood―
impel kleptomania.
Satish Verma, 27 stycznia 2022
Why did you offer your
eyes, to a non-victim―
of invisible violence?
I broke my silence to―
become deaf, like an
ocean under the ice.
The grainy moon crops
up in dark matter. The blue
bomb explodes in your face.
Blueberries swell on your
lips, throwing the stains on the―
mud path between the hills.
The monk sits for oil―
bath on burning coals.
Truth bursts out as dark lies.
Satish Verma, 24 stycznia 2022
The witch-hunt starts
for an unexploded bomb.
A racist slur becomes mute
for posterity.
The words start migrating―
coming out of their skin and colors.
A dead man walks into
a coal pit for exoneration.
Breathless, I become privy
to mass suicides of the flying moths.
You become a child, hiding
behind a tree, watching
a tiger maul a striped ariel.
Satish Verma, 23 stycznia 2022
A conspiracy of the sort.
This is what I wanted
from you.
Abandoned in space―
between the eyes, you were
supposed to lead the humble light
for an elusive peace.
I was lost in the
lexicon of intrigues, the
nest of prudence of the
proverbial lap dance.
Standing at the gate
of morgue, waiting to receive
another caravan of
pseudo remains.
Like a Spartan, you will
not retreat, not bend, your feet
near the grave― still standing erect.
Like wasps the green words would zoom.
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