Satish Verma, 7 marca 2023
How do I carry the
moon, wherever I go to search
you between the clouds.
Gradually, thoughts
become homeless. Can't catch
the wheezing flies.
Blaming self, the trunk
dies inside. No sap will
rise. No glue will roll.
Satish Verma, 6 marca 2023
I want you to call
me, when my shirt was stainless
and sun was rising.
The monarch lands on
my book to read the verse―
meant for the moon.
The empty mind spins.
Script was totally burnt-out in
my voicelessness.
Satish Verma, 5 marca 2023
The first stitch
of the poem. Painless words.
There was no song.
The lull before the
blast. Buddha bends to pick up
the tangerines.
Deep orange-red
sun rises to name the sin.
There was no saint.
Satish Verma, 4 marca 2023
Love blooms in hush,
like cranberry. It heals soul,
half moon, half stings.
Gives you wisdom
to singe without flames
in month October.
Woe was done for,
when the snow comes in
to cover the scars.
Satish Verma, 3 marca 2023
At dusk, I will smear
your lips to color the moons.
Acts like Midas touch.
The dunes tend to
shift from the shivering hands,
when the knuckles bend.
The scope expands.
You will walk on periphery.
I will tow the line.
Satish Verma, 1 marca 2023
The fire thoughts rise,
when the stinging stubble burns
on your green face.
It doesn't smell, the
forked tongue. Taste was
sweet on the skin.
A crimson twilight
narrates the glory of sun,
inviting the moon.
Satish Verma, 27 lutego 2023
Would you remove
your mask once, and come to
me as you are?
Don't throw the pebbles
to skin my pain. The wound bleeds,
to quote the past.
I ask myself to
be quiet in this moon time.
Saint was turning red.
Satish Verma, 26 lutego 2023
When Rilke stops
whispering, I search
the cut flowers of gladioluses.
You don't speak
at all, blinking your eyes
anxiously. There was no
spate of quivering lips.
The exodus of long
breaths had the lethality.
Words come and go like,
a bunch of bees.
My problem was,
how to meet my beautiful
end.
The culture, the
wisdom would wait for
the angels.
Satish Verma, 25 lutego 2023
Something was left behind.
I was collecting all the
dried roses for the prison of
eyes. I ask myself― what was that.
Something was left behind.
A black rose? Near the
smoked candles of poems? A
tiger lily, still had the blood spots?
Why do I forget the precious things?
Something was left behind.
I wait for the butterfly,
to wake, which had breathed
last between the tender
moments. Why do I want?
Something was to be left behind!
Satish Verma, 24 lutego 2023
Space versus time.
You blend in my singularily
I will meet my other self
in the black hole.
Counting my heartbeats
I will cleave to you, but I find
that only my shadow―
walks with me.
With minimal touch of
love. I discover the asset of
stupidity. Like feeble thoughts would
swap for stinging tentacles.
A bizarre equation appears.
The fearsome becomes a jelly
fish. I am trying to give
a name to quarks.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
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