Satish Verma, 1 lipca 2023
My inguinal pain,
watching mating of moons,
at bank of tears.
Would you come to
ask the sun not to throw the
sparks in the eyes.
Will wait in twilight
for the blueness in moon.
Then give a call.
Satish Verma, 29 czerwca 2023
I was reluctant
to miss the blood moon
in your clear sky.
Shame. The city was
dying in flayed arms of words,
revealing muscles.
Violence breaks
the message of Gothic
trees in prayer.
Satish Verma, 27 czerwca 2023
I don't like.
The smoke on the occult love at
silver moon, in god's favour.
Choking on some words,
you continue to survive in brutal ways
I remained silent in a tower.
Here the currency speaks
to make the way for peace in a world
of howling screams.
Satish Verma, 26 czerwca 2023
Nothing matters now
after decimating dreams.
Will not surrender.
Polyp goes medusa.
Free swimming in my
wet eyes at dawn.
And you standing
alone will stop the worship
of rising black sun.
Satish Verma, 25 czerwca 2023
Tracing ancestory,
my poem will talk to you one day
under wolf moon.
The skin starts burning.
Singed hands will collect some
salt from god's kitchen.
No new meaning has
come out from book after
desacralization.
Satish Verma, 23 czerwca 2023
You were casual
in making bed of thorns
to collect the blood!
Fearless, light combs
the dark hairs of earth to
feel masculinity.
You rise from the
mangroves to print pattern of
wounds on the limbs.
Satish Verma, 22 czerwca 2023
How to repair the
heart? The petunias will
not listen to me.
Inverted funnels
allow the beetles to
land for honey.
Where the words end,
silence speaks of eternal
pain of treason.
Satish Verma, 20 czerwca 2023
Between wolf and
vampire, you burn the
marrow of moon.
Carnivore. You
define the perfect surrender.
No peace as yet.
My father talks to
my son in sleep, to wear
an old hawthorn crown.
Satish Verma, 18 czerwca 2023
You play bloody words
I am discovering myself
after you left.
A serpentine
history of love and hate,
hurting ourselves.
Want to see a blind.
Who will not ask my religion
my color and my creed.
Satish Verma, 17 czerwca 2023
A fistful of scent,
I inhale the lingering
pain moving crescently.
What was your doubt?
The weak bones will not carry
some hidden truths.
The earth will stink,
of broken water. No new god
was going to appear.
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