Satish Verma, 26 april 2021
Red horizon―
had bite-marks
of setting sun.
On the table,
I will place all my oblique wares
for a change.
You embrace the strange
things, horns and all. The
dissection was accurate.
A multiplex opens the
gates for all the
lipless gods.
The maddening silence
of the priest was
deafening.
I will not come near the skulls.
Satish Verma, 25 april 2021
Darkness always weighs heavy.
And light was weightless.
You were visible to me.
I was not sure, which
god went numerical.
I was carrying my scars.
It offers no solace
if I become you, and
start hunting the filters.
Let the moon rise in―
its imperial robe, in
praise of setting sun.
Satish Verma, 24 april 2021
Under the pear tree
a rape survivor
wavers.
Elsewhere a moon
was sailing in
ghostwalk.
Unsteady in human
chain, you wanted
to know, what―
was the logic
behind the savage
metaphysics?
A curse becomes
a daily bread of the
tongueless victim.
How far do I go
to unearth the myths
of nodding religion?
Satish Verma, 23 april 2021
The prediction goes awry.
I wipe away an exotic
smudge on the paper.
I was trying to fight
venom of adverbs and
adjectives.
I want to retrieve my
poem, as it was― before
the digital onslaught of beheadings.
Give me my garden room,
baby moon and spotless
needles. My blood was blind.
I would come again in
my burial mode, when
your trenches are ready.
Satish Verma, 22 april 2021
Strange, in silence, I lose
my way, my thoughts.
I will speak.
The long roots were
stronger,
than the myriad leaves.
A shadaw left
you in mid sun. No
one will follow you now.
The tree at last
enters your―
home in deep revenge.
Satish Verma, 21 april 2021
It haunts.
You still want to see the―
beheading, piecemeal
in borderless pain.
The war had defrauded my life.
An unsoiled moon
was taking depressed steps tonight.
Faith healing had stopped.
Floaters swim again in view.
A forbidden place.
You do not want to visit the
Blood-soaked turf.
Darkness enters
the poem.
Satish Verma, 20 april 2021
The swamp was in
boil. It was raining
again on the open wounds.
The scissors will
play a dirty game. You
divide the river
in right and left.
Enough was the greed
when you follow the bun.
After the surgery, no blood
was left.
I will go.
You would sing in praise
of coolness of water.
It refuses to move.
Escaped the blast, the
sparks. You can sail
in bottomless boat.
Satish Verma, 19 april 2021
An earthen lamp
in loneliness
calls off the day.
After giving you
the golden light,
in its death.
Was it a pure sin,
if I touch
you in pitch dark?
Where the time
sleeps, I will meet
you under no moon.
Satish Verma, 18 april 2021
Teaching self the,
art of dying
after a serial failure.
Stone pelting has started.
You cannot hear your own voice.
Praying for the inaccuracy of time's arrow.
A physical dimension,
you will give to your impermanence.
And silent flows the glacier out of banks.
Clear fall, seems inevitable.
The sun rises from the debris of moon,
from drop on drop of watery eyes.
Satish Verma, 17 april 2021
What would you say―
if I shed my identity,
before the water enters the boat?
A cold-blooded,
culpable homicide, of the genius,
whom you gave your house
of cards.
Amidst the pathless windows
leading to no night
no dawn.
The ice bucket dramatics.
What message you want
to send, to thirsty small birds.
The fishermen sleep
beyond the echoes. No stones
were going to scream.
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