Satish Verma, 18 lutego 2019
I will color
the sky, grieving for the
departed moon.
*
Tossing my words
onto the lake, to bring back
my baby pink.
*
Night I had woven
a gold pattern on the bed.
Memory will know.
Satish Verma, 17 lutego 2019
Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
and nickel, for a proxy collision
with hidden destiny.
It was the post trauma
syndrome, after the great
divide of breast, lifting
the nipples.
The lofty peak crumbles.
There will be the scare
around, to grow the poppies
on the mounds again.
Are you ready now
for emasculation? The
legacy will, on its own, pass
onto alternative sins.
Satish Verma, 16 lutego 2019
Come to me
like never ending pain.
I will wait till eternity.
*
Wing pierced, like
butterfly amidst cacti,
still trying to reach your lips.
*
I carry the fragrance
of fallen jessimines on grass,
white as the morning snow.
Satish Verma, 15 lutego 2019
The who was
inside you.
I want to discover,
a foam-born deity,
killing the moon.
You destroyed
me in the poems.
I cannot weave the
moonlight on the
jessamines.
Can you send
a message to Mars?
It is too crowded on
the earth. There was
no room for the muse.
Satish Verma, 14 lutego 2019
Coming over here
to find me, in abstract meaning?
I was very much there in your eyes.
*
A ghost appears
on your lips, when you explore
the silence of the road.
*
Learning the grammar
without prepositions; how will
you reach my words.
Satish Verma, 9 lutego 2019
A ghost truth
levels down,
the traffic. You enter
into catatonic stage.
Rage and anguish
will ask,
for the price of blood
flown down the river.
Listening
with the eyes. Leaffall,
luteus, music of descent
on grass.
A dust storm
settles on sill. I will
look through the window, at
a setting sun, unadored.
Satish Verma, 8 lutego 2019
Talking of obscenity
you were undressing
to show the scars.
It was and it was not
a display of is. Little
raw wound.
The lungs will not take
this insult and scream
in full horror.
One collapsed faith, after
the god failed him
to climb a ladder.
I am still convalescing
from the gunshot injury,
when you fired at a blackbird.
Satish Verma, 7 lutego 2019
Doing nothing, for no
obvious reason, engaging
the travails of self-watch, I do
not want to confront the propensity
of withdrawl.
The elder pain blooms, again
like Ipomea. Will not stand the
bright sun’s gaze, I will sail―
out between the blackened
teeth and stammering
words.
It sucks, the female snake.
The phloem, the flora. A tree kills
its own birds. Cannot ambulate
tender promises. A stricture
chokes the poem. Double-
edged truth lifts the weight.
Moon knows the art of giving.
Sends the blood tears.
Satish Verma, 6 lutego 2019
Attending to my laments,
reading a poem to myself
I could not foresee an incoming missile.
*
How could you change the world
when a black and white magpie
writes the script of life?
*
A god once told me
in whispers, he wants to
die in the shadeless sun.
Satish Verma, 5 lutego 2019
A sniper was around.
I did not want to rush
and kiss the jessamine.
Last night, it was a
retributory offer
to put off the candle.
I am here to stay
for prudence, speaking
the dialect of the nameless.
I survive the fetishes
of light. O unknown, I
live in darkness.
Moon was my solemn-
pledge. I had always stayed
in the house of truth.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
Copyright © 2010 truml.com, korzystanie z serwisu oznacza akceptację regulaminu.
Poezja
Proza
Fotografia
Grafika
Wideo wiersz
Pocztówka
Dziennik
Książki
Handmade
