Satish Verma, 14 december 2021
Why did you cast
a net to catch
the monster?
Some dark whispers
intending to flog the
supermodel?
What was your fecundity
before you had become
a saint?
Lean unto me, my
soul mate. Can you hear
the footfalls of invisible?
The wholeness was counting
the beads. Are we
killing our icons and prophets?
Moving like a madman
was the motif for you.
I am not going to live dangerously.
Satish Verma, 13 december 2021
Listening to green voice―
genderlessly,
I anoint the beautiful death.
Stream of consciousness slides
on shell of faith.
You disturb the pattern of life.
The core question was,
who did not hunt
with brutality, the lost horizon?
I become radical
in captivity. But the exit
was inside me.
Through the small window
I will catch the baby sun
to become my muse.
Satish Verma, 12 december 2021
The end of night had left
a bloody trail―
of the fading moon.
Love erupts with
a pang. I love the privacy
of dark niches.
Life begins to write about
the bare pricks. I start
paying my debts of wounds.
A canary leaves me
bleeding whenever I ask
it to burn with me.
In flames go my
dreams when I invite the
sun to sleep with me.
Satish Verma, 10 december 2021
Facing the music
of intrigues, the cuckoo
is perturbed.
Very formal, very gentle.
There was not enough time
to prove that you were―
not god.
The snow fence was broken.
Drifters tend to winter
the counting of old coins. Ruins
become beautiful. A deep
ocean invites for a solo dive.
I open my Gita and read the
dilemma of the Sun.
All the facts are rigged.
Nobody was going to sink
the lids in tears.
A moon-blind song bird
wants to reach
his home.
Satish Verma, 9 december 2021
Numerical death
walks quietly in the ruins
of hubris and pride.
The neostrength of
the grass, goes for some aberration.
Wind stops at the gate of unknown.
It was not your fault.
We all were responsible
for the fall of grace.
The calculus of the rubble,
would not tell about―
the last words of fallen hero.
It imperils my belief,
when you wear a brace to―
tell the truth in dark.
Satish Verma, 8 december 2021
Your face swims like
a myth.
Night spreads the veil
of a cloud on the
white breast of moon.
No family. Words
move in different tacks.
Water heals, when
your feet were sore.
Soya beans. You have roasted
them alive in jumpsuits.
The faith becomes a devil.
The black eye
waits for the rain to
wash the racial smudge.
Satish Verma, 7 december 2021
You cannot bisect
the darkness,
in this unreal world.
A silent pause in words
ups the rejection. You
go out of your mind.
A shadow fear,
follows you in corridor
of light. You become friendless.
Amnesty comes in
way, to dismantle the truth
of kill, without blood.
Don't chase the columns
of light or beautiful
orbs, in intense winds of black hole.
It swallows you
whole, when you want
to touch them.
Satish Verma, 6 december 2021
With silver spoon, I
cannot eat your words―
selling my poverty.
Another pain comes,
when you walk barefoot
in hot sun, to feel the old burns.
Black moon, and red
eyes, in white nights.
These were my poems.
Your body comes in
between my blues
and trembling morrows.
Satish Verma, 5 december 2021
The horror of you in
lesser light, when you took
via dolorosa, to
meet yourself.
Moon was not waiting
for you in unkind sky. A
pinhole of dark would not send
some hope.
Something unsavory was a
way of unhappening,
tying the knot with the destiny
of doing nothing.
Losing my kernels in
desert of words. I took
the wrong path of liberation―
where no god lives.
Satish Verma, 4 december 2021
A dynamic kill,
when you start crystal―
gazing.
Were you a participant
of an organized
rape of the planet?
Your roots drop,
as you gamble with the
change of coins. It would
become a stillbirth,
of a seaisle.
Telling lies has become
a lucrative job.
Are you going to buy immortality,
in the bazaar of bazookas?
The blast cells were
rising. There was intense
pain in my thighs. Blood
was turning white.
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