Satish Verma, 3 maja 2024
When will you go
in dark to explore the yawning
abyss of man's heart?
To rub the flesh and
bones to unmake god's will?
You truly want answer?
You don't want miracles.
Had you not covered my wounds
in blind oceans?
Satish Verma, 1 maja 2024
A mysterious nudge
wakes an idea in you.
Can you think differently?
See through your
mind, by virtue of birth
and death of past.
Don't you cover
your face with wrinkles.
Sun will never die.
Satish Verma, 30 kwietnia 2024
Inquiring myself
to understand the goddess
of visitations.
This world was not
my choice. Space was shrinking,
and time expanding.
I walk in the crowd
to be lynched on the name
of forgotten god.
Satish Verma, 29 kwietnia 2024
You were not sin.
Pain interrupted to trigger
an ancient love.
Marigolds were in
bloom. Copper― brown. Your body
does not belong to you.
Paper dreams fly
to catch the moon in dark.
Time to burn wings.
Satish Verma, 28 kwietnia 2024
Dying red leaves were
ready for a blitzkrieg. The spectre
of blood river returns suddenly.
The consistent failure
brings the dewy tears. Tell me--was it
writing on the threadbare body of pain.
Ah a dust song comes
from a comet's tail. A thunderstorm
has a hole. It is the eye of the grim reaper.
Satish Verma, 27 kwietnia 2024
You can see whole
world in my mouth. I start
knitting a blood scarf.
To raise gender,
thebeestings will play a role.
The skin prints history.
You become your
own teacher to read the hymns
engraved on leaves.
Satish Verma, 26 kwietnia 2024
I take a lesson
from you O god, before
I write the end.
Who will rise from
the dust of the ruins after
the volcanic blast?
A celebration was
stalled when you had landed
on the dark moon.
Satish Verma, 25 kwietnia 2024
Light digs up the hope.
You appear like pure flint.
Sorrow will tell truth.
Weep weep my sun.
Black hole will swallow you.
No need to drink hemlock.
The blank paper has
hidden markings. God wants
to become mortal.
Satish Verma, 24 kwietnia 2024
The answers look
at questions, like sparrows
did not find home.
Where wouldgo, the
butterfly poems, to color
the barren thoughts?
You glide like river
of blood in the eyes of
wounded moon.
Satish Verma, 22 kwietnia 2024
Can you foretell of the
death-like the hound― after
the loss of game?
Past my last poems I
will meet you one day
to settle the debts.
I was incomplete
in my wholeness. I will dissect
the words for bleeds.
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