# #betrayal #life #forgiveness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #let me be

Waves Rolling

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Come November―
I will wear the fall
of varied colors.
Crunching on withered leaves
of your memories.

There was no birthday.
When the world sleeps―
I write a poem, looking
at the rubble of life.

Opinionated, the time
suck like a beast―
brazenly.

It was a stunning defeat
of the dawn, of the nonviolent
sprouts under the scorching sun
of the gaze.

Trying to assuage the
realization. I am no more me.

Transgressing

Folder: 
Satish Verma

As if opiated,
something impossible, I was
asking from you.

I was very angry
with me, carrying the unborn―
baby-dreams, in my arms,
and leaving you behind- flawless.

Learning against the past,
I would commit the old fixation
in my sight, to clasp
your sweaty hand for a while.

And under the April moon
you were walking,
scattering the rose petals―
on the way to a shrine.

Do prayers heal a man
who preemptively
went for the assault?

I was, what I am not.

Will Not Speak

Folder: 
Satish Verma

You have clean hands.
You don't hide.
I can read your signs.

The rising violence
makes the rich tombs. You
stand like a Buddha.

From the ashes, you
can build a Homer's Troy.
I will not visits the site.

The legacy of moon
suffers. The doormats become
rich. Why fake daddies?

A brain stops midway
in jungle of no words.
You want to sing.

You are scared of me
for receiving the gifts.

Strange Privacy

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Standing on a ledge―
counting the clouds.
Moon will never betray me.

Was it so easy to―
say goodbye, after thousand
words spent on you?

Your skin flutters like―
a flag. The big name of
stain was still beautiful.

Love had become a
truth, of a martyr. The
slaughter was a bundle of lies.

How will you undo the―
knots, of undying smile?
That was a thrill?

Go get the award of defeat.
I am still working on you.

Mending The Omens

Folder: 
Satish Verma

My pick,
I will keep on giving you my best,
after the fear bath.

The cosmotic pain
caves in. Hirsute limbs climb
the steep cut of fog.
I will not punish me anymore.

A nagging doubt lingers on.
How long the dark night will last?

It causes a nip
in your voice. You speak very faintly
to understand me.

The earthly smell of your bare lips.
wafts in. Was it a surrender?

You become misty.
You tremble, like a poppy in
scented wind.

Like a walking fern. I may touch you.

The Random Bites

Folder: 
Satish Verma

I did not want
to know you. Then why―
asking the way
to your home.

The dilemma of the
musky scent. Do you think―
it was a traditional
way of carrying the love
of unknown.

This world does not
suit me. Shame to the doormen,
how did you reach there
unannounced under the night's sounds.

The tone you will miss.
The tree has walked away.
No sin was left.

Somebody Melts

Folder: 
Satish Verma

I didn't know
how to do it, when I lost you.
Irretrievable.
Pain becomes personal.
Polarization abducts the protocol
and I turn into a boy,
adrift in the jungle
of biology.

Strange journey. You
come back to the post―
from where you had started.
Any suffering? No,
I want to repeat myself
to become wiser.

Cannot hit you, break
you. The mirror of pain must
remain intact. The bright
sun will shine, irrespective
of my dark clouds.

Under the sea, the fall moon
rests on the coral bed.
A piercing cry comes from nowhere.

Rewriting The Script

Folder: 
Satish Verma

I am borrowing―
your smile.
Hold my hand to the end
of my pain.

Collecting the stone fruits
for a ritual. I will
skin the pink-yellow shade
for your eyes.

Like fire ants― moonlight
stings. Smothering all
the embers. Some flames won't die.
The crazy affair empties a poem.

Croci will go wild. But you
want to wear a rainbow.
Your delicate arch of eyebrows
drains the tears.

Something was strange.
Breakwaters were melting away.

Eyes In Sky

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Listen,
take your call.
You can smell the
musk of a wandering deer.

Retrieve,
the lost soul of
the wounded age. Ravens
are increasing in number, waiting.

The grace,
disappearing fast. The
random silence, in terrible
commotion, remains unheard.

I step outside,
my body, my thoughts,
on flat earth. You touch
a poet's dilemma.

On your bones,
lies a small bundle
in white, of the future
child― stillborn.