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

The Reckoning

Folder: 
Satish Verma

It was revenge on you 
by unknown. 
You were sentenced to live before 
the ashes arrive from thumb to thumb. 

The onset of grief 
was caliberated. I would 
not live with a mad weaver 
who will not heal the moral bleeds. 

A line delimits the dots. 
The dance will not begin tonight, 
of democracy. The sparrows 
were frightened. There was blood on the road. 

You want to go into a long sleep. 
The moon had an excuse to rise late. 
The seeds will observe the silence, 
before they come out of the asphalt.

Parting The Ways

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Like wounded tiger, 
going for last innings. 
Like Orpheus listening 
to water, without looking back. 

Will not entrance you 
any more, under the moonscape, 
getting light from 
the nightingale. 

Finding the passage of 
sunrise, I will wait for you 
to come last time- 
for a goodbye. 

Trembling like aspen 
leaf, to steal your aura 
in moonless night, when Milky Way 
will spread the diamonds.

This Universe

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The spirit was not there 
under the skin- 
in grey domain. 
I will not seek any revenge on self. 

The defeat was my solo passage. 
I am still searching 
myself in the crowd. 
More than enough, I had my share of hurts. 

Talking of the innocence 
of a womb, when you were not 
born. The steel in your hair 
and empathy in your tongue. 

A wandering sage will 
not love the fall of night. 
You see better in twilight. The 
shadows give an illusion of angels.

Self-Infliction

Folder: 
Satish Verma

This was a perception defict 
when only a suicide could stop you. 
From where to where we 
Have come in traumatized stake. 
Black tongues always ruled. No 
rite of passage, where money changers 
speak. How will you cover yourself now? 

Feminized, the dance of wolves. 
Do not throw the chunks of flesh 
in arena― for hubris will 
bring the nemesis. 

The flint makes a pledge. 
When the red rains come and 
overwhelm the innocent earth, 
we will make the tools again.

A Guilt On Trial

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Like a blood sport 
you play with me. 
My thumb bleeds. 

Cannot be salvaged. 
You are put on display 
like lamb meat.. 

Jealousy will ultimately win. 
Uncoupling has started. 

The betrayal hides 
under the lids.Side by side 
are laid the golden chips. 

Now you liberate the unbeliever. 
One day the avalanche will bury the rings. 

Let's not go back to the 
sordid details of relative truths. 
I only wanted to to prove that 
I was wrong. 

Knees broken, I will walk.

Feeding Silkworms

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Living in a different 
reality. You wanted to confuse 
the honeybees. They were dying in large 
numbers. There was frantic search 
for the skullcaps. Power 
of the crowd was on display. 
The stingers were on prowl. 

Again the mountain 
slips. The terrain becomes pathless, 
placeless. So where to sit with a mirror? 
A tulip garden has arrived 
for inquisition. Are you ready 
to surrender your cloaks? The 
public servants will make an inventory. 

The day dreaming does not stop. 
I wait. The best is yet to come.

Sitting Alone

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The shallow incursions 
grow louder. I have 
burnt my fingers, lighting 
the moon. 

The future of currency 
was changing hands. You 
start bargaining for- 
the water, the air. 

Armageddon: will it take 
place in the modern times? 
Where are the titans 
and the hill? 

It slows the search for 
the truth. The mudslide was 
rising and the buried will 
not speak, at peace with themselves.

Wasting Of Faith

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Annihilating your 
own minarets to meet 
the god once. 

Little time left to make the score. 

The climbdown has started 
absolute and final. 

The methane was 
spilling out.You need a matchstick. 

Awful.You cannot see 
the kitchen fire.Where was 
the sanctity? 

A noble cause.Dousing 
the flames, to leave a naked 
body of truth. 

Don't split the hearts.Only 
give the shrouds.Faces 
must not be seen

Compressed Emotions

Folder: 
Satish Verma

I had met the flower 
after a longtime. 
The rose. 

And its fragrance 
hauls me to childhood 
after the big dying. 

A tender, scented dream 
will touch me, 
to become a poet. 

Lying on dewed grass 
you think, a promiscuous 
microbial libido begins. 

The explosion will eject 
free verses, waiting in silence-
to witness- the April fall.