Satish Verma, 13 lutego 2020
Fear of staying in sidelines,
as a waning voice,
and falling in a drain.
You stand at the door of light,
and see the truth― boundaries
crumpling.
Afraid of transmission of lies,
interfacing long threads
of darkness.
It was extraneous, A
lot of heat generated by the
conversions. The doorkeeper remains the same.
The wisdom goes with
a begging bowl. Spirit was to
become an incomplete text.
Satish Verma, 11 lutego 2020
Skin deep, the moon
goes with me,
to bid goodbye to old year.
I have moved nearer
to the door knob,
of the unopened crypt.
The stale air leaks from the crumbling door.
The unfinished books
are under the frost. I cannot
shovel the walk. A grainy
picture emerges, of despair.
Going to dig up the ruins
to find the script.
Ink spills on the paper,
words depart.
Satish Verma, 9 lutego 2020
I hear again your voice
after injury pause.
An apologia.
It is still kempt,
the mist scented, milk bath
by moon, in dark.
In legendary night, everything was legitimate.
The licit kiss of death too.
One by one the faces
were missing. The snake bites,
of love.
The embroidered memories are
hanged to dry up in rain.
The eyes like moths, flicker around
the dark candle of another childhood.
Satish Verma, 8 lutego 2020
The long tentacles return
to gather you,
in clawless loops.
What do you see in the godless
domain of winged
colts?
The colossus had
glaring flaws. Binary
curse falls like a barrel-bomb.
I remained oblivious
of the uncorrupted dawn,
rising from the ruins of fallen saints.
I am standing on the
grey rock, where black and
white meet. Time becomes a moment.
Satish Verma, 7 lutego 2020
Wearing raw beef,
speaking Buddha,
it was real time in dystopia.
I was wondering,
how to cheat life.
Crypts were empty.
Think, keep quite,
I would say, watching
the river go by.
The feral look, will
teach you suffer. There
was no ending.
Half-bird, half-mount―
You carry the burden
of undoing nemesis.
Satish Verma, 6 lutego 2020
A mentalist does not feel
secure, when you start
jaywalking in the empty street.
What was the need to
rescue a predator, when
the river was dry?
The ducks were crossing
the road. Stay put, till
the kids want to make a halt.
It was a renaissance
connection, when a clan is
sentenced to speak softly.
Satish Verma, 5 lutego 2020
The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.
Like the black magic
of depression, in fall,
overwhelming the silence.
Of not becoming, what
you wished me to be,
or not to be.
A conflict always,
climbs the wall to overlook,
the pain of separation.
This winter, I am not
going to witness, the death
of night birds.
Satish Verma, 4 lutego 2020
In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.
An invisible ink, of late
marks the error
of autumn. A lone survivor
of leaves of time, would not
break the word.
The donated eyes will not
see the dreams. You can
boil the bones to get the truth.
Somewhere a guilt prospers.
It is what you don't think.
Satish Verma, 1 lutego 2020
In praise of body
like a bow,
shooting arrows of clemency.
But I have come to deny myself,
the nemesis.
There was no penitence.
Unacceptable, in the light of
broad-day murder
of democracy.
Freedom to arc was a personal
style, writing poetry
against the art
of manipulation.
I am ready to become
human, after inferno, started
by you, to burn
the story.
Satish Verma, 31 stycznia 2020
I am not going to touch
the meaning―
of nativity for unknown
guests.
A cameo appearance of some
god, does not take away the
most recent fears
of death.
The ghosts have their own
defences against scars,
bruises and unstitched
bones.
Give me a piece of unleashed
poem, my odyssey
has begun in
earnest.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
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