Satish Verma, 1 october 2023
When you left, I had
covered my mirror not to
see my swollen eyes.
Who takes control
of whom? I was victim of
animal bites.
The path to lake
was open to bohemians,
who always wear blues.
Satish Verma, 30 september 2023
It was religion.
The yellow viper will strike.
No weight of sin.
The spirit will not
wear a body if I fail to
die in your hands.
The bridal oath
drops some words to become
winged and fly away.
Satish Verma, 29 september 2023
Your trajectory was
rising. People rode the stars
to reach the moon at night.
Anxiety of name.
How to draw the figure of
god who was a giver.
It was your decision
to abandon the earth for
a golden chair to sit.
Satish Verma, 28 september 2023
A medieval smile
picks up the frozen pain
of fallen hero.
The fear prevails.
You cannot move the finger
to stitch a celibate.
The lies shine,
spitefull, but wrapped in
tears of broken pen.
Satish Verma, 27 september 2023
Joining back tribe
was not atonement
for separation.
The truth pricks like
needles in eyes. What it was,
comes through my poems.
Picking up pieces
of wounded light to draw
a map of darkness.
Satish Verma, 26 september 2023
Can you feel pulse
of a moment before it
explodes on face?
I have yet to find
my tiger to ride for an
antique encounter.
Pomegranates.
You squeeze the red flesh
to find out viper.
Satish Verma, 25 september 2023
Wading in tears
you want to catch time. Sun
will bake your eyes.
You undid my charm,
weaving a web, wearing the
threads of wounds.
Do prayers help the
cobalt valley of cleaved
breast in moon?
Satish Verma, 24 september 2023
Defining hunger
I become metaphysical,
trying to locate me.
A pain transcends
space and time and I wake
between the words.
I was not there
where the honey spells doom.
Death has many doors.
Satish Verma, 23 september 2023
To live again, I
will not come after dying for
you. Resurrection?
I ask the dust, when
did you slip from the moon
to kiss immortal?
Don't leave a cut
on the sandstone to mark
the anniversary.
Satish Verma, 22 september 2023
It hurts me, my poems
when you don't come in dreams.
Moonlight waits.
How devastated
was your faceless voice in dark!
The nightingale cries.
Like "la grippe"
the noiseless words leave the
night wounds in eyes.
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