Satish Verma, 22 listopada 2020
Salt-of-the lips.
You never know, how it hurts
the bigotry.
It was not the might
of divinity, when you sentence
the child for blasphemy.
I would not kiss the-
stone, where the blood stained
the sun. Grey halo was collapsing.
It was the helplessness
of the river, accepting the guilt
of sunken boat.
Again I recite your name
in sleep. The sting was as cruel
as the tongue.
Satish Verma, 21 listopada 2020
You to whom, I
am lost, the remaining pain
will fetch the grace-
poise and dignity of
ending.
The future lies in-
the halo of the hill, where
the blood was spilled last night.
A black spot on the sun was
enlarging. I spell your name
in a bird song, that croons
tirelessly in timeless dawn.
The moon drenched lake
wails for the boat not to come.
Satish Verma, 20 listopada 2020
The heartwood had the ingrained
dream map, to reach the
divine shape of a solemn god, who
was guiding the sap.
One day you would go deep
in dark, to find your roots
where tomorrow was conceived.
And in the ruins, you will
find the warmth of
your peers, still walking on the god-particles.
A religion now takes over
the mob, ready to plunge into yellow
sands of dry river.
The hopes and promises,
give you a horizon, far away.
Your want to touch this furnace,
that brings the burning day of solitude.
Satish Verma, 19 listopada 2020
Wearing the red bandanna,
you tried to manipulate the bedrock.
Life had been never the same for me.
The ferry sinks the riding
deity in midstream. In polytheism,
I never had my own god.
O the chemistry of love has
changed. Meatless, my skiny arms,
lift the sage of fallen moon in darkness.
I am not ready to conclude
as yet, my epic of fragmented truth.
We were fighting the wars of lame lies.
Who would spare me to become
immortal in stones? Let us not start the
annihilation of sane shadows in the poem.
Satish Verma, 18 listopada 2020
Your interpretation
was a miracle of
unbelieving. I was not
a flesh eater.
Between paradise
and a hut, lies the sky
of colored dreams. You
lean forward to-
pluck the moon.
So stoned, was the
sinister design, that
you walked straight
into the arms of stings.
It has become a
strange saga, when a
moth burns, without
a candle.
A sun nosedives with
a water motif on the lips.
Satish Verma, 11 listopada 2020
The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be
forgotten in gender dysphoria.
In grimed apparel,
the deities were deported back
to the barn, for housing the antiques.
The future turns blue,
moon-eyed, hooking up the
hopes of running heels.
Is that true that there
will be mass suicide after
the fall of the fort?
The fat lanterns now
don't throw the light. Incense
of burning flesh floats.
Satish Verma, 10 listopada 2020
It was punctuated night.
You sleep into wakefulness.
The space between the shut-eyes
trembles, when you start sweating.
The infant-death of the dream,
incites the borderland. The-
flames rise in a partisan way,
to erase the memories of guilt.
You are in deep grief for the
coiled sperms, from end to end,
they were longer than the body.
Would you like to wake up a jinn?
A digital forgetfulness, you seek
to solve the enigma of life.
Satish Verma, 8 listopada 2020
This spectrum.
No it will not work.
I am not there in the
shade, smoke filled barn, or-
in secular morgue.
Stubble burning was
like legend of war.
How do I shut the
door of diamond moon-
in the kingdom of
weeping night?
An animal in you
will not sleep, claiming the
innocence of baby steps.
A virginal vanity.
Nobody stops you to
display the grains of salt.
Would you listen to the land,
flight of words-
passage of time?
Satish Verma, 7 listopada 2020
The moment of truth has-
arrived. The earth
has moved the man. It was
accidental verdict. You know,
which cell you will be incarceated now?
My flame-singed eyes, search
the inception of integrity above board.
I am afraid of myself to
admit that societal violence
has come to stay!
Celebrating the birthday of
a self-propelled god, I go
into irreversible retreat. God
bless the wax house, fire was
raging on hills.
The blood cherries, blood on
your shirt, blood rings on your
fingers, and blood in my eyes.
Satish Verma, 6 listopada 2020
In searing heat, on
the fern path-
a thoughtless journey begins.
You cancel the prayer
for midnight blues.
Ice was going to unload.
The skin deep spread
of levator floor acts.
You jump from a springboard
to catch a lucid dream.
Would you now walk like
an eight legged spider?
I will remain sociable.
The hands are not for sale.
I am arranging the combs
on the white sheet-
for the queens.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
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