Satish Verma, 12 october 2019
The fresco had started
peeling off. I was―
searching for my ancestors.
The walls had the secrets
buried deep in the bricks―
when they were baked.
Few abandoned poems,
some fakes and counterfeits
and many masks.
A dynasty speaks of
the grieving world without any―
remorse. I do not arrive.
A birthday present for the new
generation, a bronzed
face with glazed eyes looking beyond gravity.
Satish Verma, 11 october 2019
The bifurcation―
was complete.
A fire baby―
and a weird ritual.
Criticality was redundant,
once I knew your gender.
Reeking of timelessness
in zero hour.
You fly the balloons―
from the ruins.
I scraifice a tree
for you, with
a shrill cry―
falling mid-flight.
White moon had
become very harsh.
I will bring honey
for night.
Satish Verma, 9 october 2019
Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,
of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.
A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.
Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―
eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.
A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?
O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me
Satish Verma, 8 october 2019
The tibial spiking
now hurts.
The floaters on the dried bed―
of bones, speak volumes
of sand in eyes.
Pawns have disappeared.
The earth is wounded.
A snake climbs onto the pink lips
to know its crime.
The matter interacts wrongly
with radiation. Spectroscopy
fails up to the hilt.
On the spur of the moment
I ignite the shadow
of the space between us.
The miser starts counting the coins.
Satish Verma, 7 october 2019
There was an urgency―
to finish the job,
beheading the tulips.
Wolves were coming.
The surveillance had failed.
Nothing but clouds between
the titles.
Writing was illegible.
It was the last offensive
of blankness.
Before the dawn.
You have to draw a crescent
moon on my forehead.
I am going to scream.
Satish Verma, 6 october 2019
It is raining.
The water colors.
I miss the ache.
When, to wear a crimson
dot on forehead, the sky
had become a bride.
Destiny fractured.
Why did't I tell the lies
to achieve the greatness?
Not my effects. I stare
blankly at your portrait.
Blaming the conceptual
crisis, you cannot speak the truth.
Weaving a web of unseen
threads, you hold a poem
ready to take a flight.
Satish Verma, 5 october 2019
Your hands tremble,
when you accept―
the cup of hemlock.
Not like Socrates,
who described the ascending bane
paralyzingly.
Art of letting it go―
was inherent. Exogamy.
The root population grows.
I have come to take
your hand, O death,
out of caste.
You tell me,
it was out of turn,
to stitch the black wound.
The howling was persistent―
Moon was not yet sighted.
Satish Verma, 4 october 2019
Writing your own elegy in a
blocked artery―
for a syntactic analysis.
How do I know
that dolphin will remember
my name,
my address?
It swims silently.
No ranting.
Eating nothing― anorexia.
Standing under a tree,
tying the thread round the trunk,
you want to move against
the time.
Only a question
remains unanswered.
From where the journey begins?
Satish Verma, 3 october 2019
Imperfect mating.
I am lurching forward―
in a chaotic
non-existence.
There was no divinity
in your sinless sprinkling.
A timeless death was
the only riposte to ephemeral queries.
A lif-size God stands
sentinel outside the museum.
Only the mortal were
etched on the walls.
A pygmy cycas has bloomed
after a decade. I have come back
home to collect―
my belongings of last life.
Satish Verma, 2 october 2019
Your comatose
countenance:
punctuates a coronal spurt.
Life will never
forget this insult and return
your freak awards.
The moon cancels
a lake meeting. You cannot
celebrate the arrival of night.
Helplessly, I scrap
the terror threat, though
your memory was severed in an ambush.
At ground zero,
a young couple starts a sit-in
against the raining sermons.
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