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Satish Verma, 3 marca 2021
Multiple hurts― and
you still want to live
in this dystopia.
The queue was
lengthening to catch up
with moon.
The gate man will talk
of an apocalypse.
The repeat flame, which
does not die in the presence
of sun.
The thoughts. Will they
ever stop in dark? The
moonlight gathering the ashes.
The erotica fails to
cast the net. You want to
collect the venom of desire
capping the end blues.
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Satish Verma, 2 marca 2021
After a long journey
he wants to sit
under the moon.
*
Not calling home,
he wanted to cross
the religion.
*
There was no clearing―
of subterranean fears.
I have accepted the mats.
*
In boiling water
why did you jump
to save the fish?
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Satish Verma, 1 marca 2021
I want to be
eloquent, with myself―
to write a poem.
*
Do you have
a clean blade
as pure as a plum?
*
Not enough
were the seeds,
for green fingers.
*
A grivever―
comes back, to undo
the guilt of others.
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Satish Verma, 28 lutego 2021
Talking of myths,
in dichotomy of grace―
when somebody said that
the facts were loose truths.
Your faith slumbers―
when you are awake. And
you, my door of night, will
wear the tears of dawn.
Not sharing the loneliness,
when I was dispensing the
laughs amidst the grief
of hills. The trees, the slopes
and seeds― that will never bear
the fruits.
And there, I did't want
to celebrate my unwritten epitaph
after completing the life
of falls.
And the neighborhood still
sleeps when I decide to walk away
towards the dark.
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Satish Verma, 27 lutego 2021
The wheels.
I decide to abandon―
the home.
*
The pain of darkness
returns. Wax
drips from a taper.
*
A sickle moon―
stirs,
my religion.
*
Deep anguish,
after the taste of
your own blood.
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Satish Verma, 26 lutego 2021
This was an illegal kill
between you and me.
I will abdicate―
my headstone.
The black eyes keep on staring
at the orange wings.
Butterflies presage
the quake's qualms.
Very unsettled, I was,
against the odds. I was trying
to figure out my―
new passage.
Slaughtered with a sickle,
a faith lies―
bleeding, I bring out the
cannabis for peace.
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Satish Verma, 25 lutego 2021
At crisis of
inquiry, you search
the questions.
Life throws up a savage violence.
Bruising our psychies
we try to know each other.
At the end of the road,
we try to start a conversation.
There was a huge presence―
of some unseen force.
Much ado, looking
through each other. Would
you call me again?
Let there be a brutal
confession. I take back
my words and rewrite a poem.
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Satish Verma, 24 lutego 2021
News runs faster
than the sun. It is
dark already.
You have started arresting
the shadows. I was still
talking to a rose.
Let's go somewhere. Where
no war cries are heard
for a day.
How many, will you―
count the dead? Each mortal
wants to go home.
The postcards, don't
arrive from the front
anymore.
Will you take my message
by the severed head.
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Satish Verma, 23 lutego 2021
And my love, when do we talk
of wilderness
and daisy blooms?
The snakeskin-
twirls, and I watch the
wriggling night moving away.
I swallow the
empty words. They are not
heavy and no concoction.
The body and desires.
I have let then slip away,
my dreams, my knocks.
Against the dying of
blueberries in your eyes,
I will not wash the stains.
The curve of umbilicus
still remembers the dazzling
fall.
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Satish Verma, 21 lutego 2021
A dumb copy of me.
You were done for.
Sometimes the design goes awry.
Ptosis. You are called for―
a fall. But you refuse
to die.
You survive the clouds, the
first moon, the brown eyes.
Me before the sun.
Let us take a risqué humor.
Forget each other
and become strangers.
One intentional error.
Honey, honey, honey.
Bees ready to fly away.
The shrine of a flier.
Where it was?
I was searching the sea.
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