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

New Family

Folder: 
Satish Verma

To be honest, there 
was no poem today. 
A refusal to celebrate 
the loss of truth in me. 

The weather is climbing. 
They have assembled to- 
disgorge the peace efforts. 
War was in our blood. 

The great divide of 
guillotines and blessed swords, 
to behead or not to behead 
the god. 

There was very little good 
in the evil designs.We have 
logic and logistic problems. 
You do not want a friend, only enemies. 

The rebellion, the treason, 
the betrayals, all were meant 
to upgrade your divinity. 
let us revert back to animal status. 

The bread, land and water are one.

The Intense Pain

Folder: 
Satish Verma

It was unbashed invasion, 
and then you were paraded naked. 

The marrow was depressed. 
I will not be able to collect you. 

Lost in thoughts, I 
am losing you in every book. 

There was no striving, 
to be called by any name, any monument. 

Hyperplasia. The rot has set in 
Would you come to greet the death one day? 

There was a speaking ache. 
Word was me, I was the tongue. 

The turgid lips still remember. 
Once the sting was here to take a kiss.

Looming Large

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The art of losing the 
core-hurts, standing in deepest 
mood. 
You want to see, what your 
prefrontal cortex thinks. 

The suffering: the debris 
fall on the eyes. 
Vast Greenland melts. 
The terror strikes. You 
inherit the barren land. 

I start talking with the 
spirits. In the shoe box, lies the 
past. The water was rising 
in eyes. The scent of moon 
sometimes misses the earth. 

The butterflies, sometimes 
come, declare the deadline 
for garden prayers.

My China Broke

Folder: 
Satish Verma

There was an endless war 
between you and me O god 
from time immemorial, in the 
desert zone. 

The scorching harsh light 
of sun has spread the veins 
of earth with burning oil wells. 

Green pods will not open the round eyes. 

Now the sky was crying. 
Songbirds are gone.The thick-skulled 
were trying to find the scapegoats. 

The king lies.Wants 
to kill the night's moons.How much 
big mouth was your's? I wanted 
to serve my land.There were 
no more waters, which 
carried the flight of blue dreams. 

Just because, I wanted to tell you 
it was not easy to live any more.

Not The God

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A fathomless abyss, 
you feel the power of wordless going. 

Sperms leave, 
when you smell your own blood. 

The roasted pig, 
or degenerating rhyme. 

What would be your pick; 
the dopamine? 
The serotonin, 
the medulla? 

The radar will not follow you. 
You are alone. 
A tiny dot moving on the screen of life. 

The morality was at risk, 
with no window.

Many Headed Snake

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The spat between the hydra 
and sea, 
was the end of perfect relationship. 

Now an unqualified, unknowing- 
will take on the depression. 

Were you feeling liberated? I would ask the moment. 

Let us delete 
the faces and go to war 
without limbs. 

This was a summer afternoon. 
The books are in cauldron- 

and you are praying alone.

The Earthen Death

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Spurned, 
staring into a void- 
for a door, 
burning a sage. 

Wearing a veil to ward off 
the curse. 

You start the baby steps 
getting there, near the noose, 
weighing the planks. 

Now you are breathing fast, 
getting a hit, counting 
the hymns. 

The corrupt booms 
rise and fall. 
An overt withdrawal 
from the bet, to sacrifice the bliss. 

White lilies washed, 
in tears, let down the shawls. 
You can see the holy vice.

With Dignity

Folder: 
Satish Verma

What is that of this, 
I will ask from the question 
which sleeps on the twisted lip. 

The probity suffers, 
when you burn your white paper. 
Why did not you write your name? 

The cortex invades 
medulla. Your kidneys falter. 
The sense and price become one. 

A nude opend the pride. 
The curves, the slants will 
ask you to become the flic, 

but you become a god, 
accept the knife's version 
and bleed to death.

Between This And That

Folder: 
Satish Verma

There was a trust deficit 
between the rose petals, under 
the wheels and the moving feet. 

It does not resolve the ancient 
conflict of man with 
the machine via perfume. 

The smell of the pungent smoke, 
sits in the empty chairs, 
when you were left alone on the burning deck. 

Where the sky meets 
the ocean, my ship had sunk 
amidst the blood and the blaze. 

In absentia, I am baffled 
by the time's minute, when the search 
of the self goes unending.