# #betrayal #life #forgiveness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #love #Friendship

My Chivalry

Folder: 
Satish Verma

What happened? I would 
ask the realness 
of genocidal face. 

The blue cock 
was numb in the laser thin 
commentary. 

The face was mirror. You 
can apply a salve by implanting a womb 
in the barren dream. 

Beheading a thought 
was not sufficient to kill the theme. 
It will come back with revenge. 

OCD. I come back again and again to 
look at the portrait 
of a failed god.

The Genius

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Water has the wisdom, 
the bones may not agree. 

No commentary today. There was no 
eternal friend or enemy. 
Listen to your breath, your heart. 
No qualms. Hands are not mine. 

Charcoal. A voiceless man 
wants to write, something on the snow. 
The cold-eyed moon will watch. 

The chimney's soot, gets buried 
under the white sheet, ice. 

In holy land. You have come to 
pray, to wipe out the nose-bleed.

Kidnapped

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Lamenting, what not to― 
think. Condemned to burn 
the words daily. 

The dwindling values tear open 
the sit-ins of faith. I was 
not ready to become a stone. 

A busy vessel sends daily, the 
blood to remote memories. 
I look askance at the falling peaks. 

A dog star following the 
heels of master with blinders. No 
straight vision. Time was the 
mystery of the clock. 

The moon is nowhere 
in sight. I was starving 
for a cardinal pain.

From The Edge

Folder: 
Satish Verma

You were becoming more prone 
to violence, confronting 
the moon. Heat was rising. 

Like a mongrel, twirling 
round and round in dirt, 
to sit in. 

It was very dangerous, the 
racial thought of eliminating 
oneself in the mainstream. 

A morphogenic change 
was visible. Why were you 
shrinking in horror? 

The group pain was getting 
a hold of me. I am not 
sure, what I will do now.

Picking Up The Threads

Folder: 
Satish Verma

No attachment with the 
alma mater. You have 
eaten away all the grass. 
Bounteous breast was empty. 

Like a nun, dropping 
the robes, the moon was rising. 
Would you meet her in dark? 

The night wanted to come 
and sit in your lap. 
Let us play with cowries. 

You know my life was 
never in the hands of god. 
I was a walking tree. 

So simple were the means 
of death. Nobody knew 
who was me.

From The Streetlamp

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Hits you in the face, 
disseminating the chivalry 
of fragile connotation. 

A virtue slips away from― 
your hands, when you think 
what is a pain. 

Then the poem starts 
writing about the pen 
which had no ink. 

You need courage to― 
smash the mirror which 
was telling the truth. 

And the complexity of 
relationship comes, to the fore, when 
the belief was stronger than love.

The Raging Storm

A scavenger fails to thrive 
in upward mobility. 
The emotion becomes a virtual, 
collects all the garbage 
and becomes negative. 

There are only varied questions 
of different shades, and 
no appropriate answer. 

A fantasy remonstrates with the diminutive moon. 

Stone pelting becomes a daily 
ritual with the song. There 
was no music in the language. 

Scarves were few. And it 
was very cold― 
out in the chilled dark.

Great Defiance

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A smear campaign starts 
against the ladder, which permits― 
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between, 
of dark. You stand still. 

The hunger becomes the mouth― 
of rags. I will come and collect 
some numbers. 

It was useless to hunker― 
after the game. The fear will ultimately 
start a monologue. 

On bees, I will build a 
synopsis. The sleuth always falters 
when the moon hides. 

A canned script draws the 
scorn. The player had become grey― 
in dark. 

A bunch of mushrooms, 
like tall girls, standing 
in wind, gossiping.

Great Withdrawl

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The urgency to bite the bullet 
was uncalled for. 
I could wait for eternity. 

From night to night 
a candle burns to understand 
the repentance of a fakir. 

Self-denial, you would say 
was an act of renegade, 
who deserted the throne. 

The title of the book 
misleads. Touch me inside 
the pages. You will find blankness. 

Read my hands. Full of― 
blisters, after digging out the 
truth from my failures.