# #betrayal #life #forgiveness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #poetry #Dillon #Dark #love

Design Of Death

Folder: 
Satish Verma

You said you were grief, 
the marbled tears will not flow. 
Was it not much softer 
to accept the life 
as a design of death? 
You needed the continuity of the sorrow. 
Why were you seeking the ending? 

The visible effect was mirage, 
the guilt of genocide. 
We emptied our tatoos 
on the road, 
driving the emotions to insanity 
Everything moved towards 
the precipice, rejecting the sky. 

Sorrow was part of joy, my adversary. 
I wished to separate 
the fear from the cells. 
The pain of perennial setbacks chipped away the ladders. 
I stood there at the level 
of death, demanding rocks.

Microthin Smile

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Stage was set for the god of death 
to alight in vertical scoot. 
Then a wall of fear was raised 
to outrage the door of saviour. 

The receptors were removed from brain, 
rejecting the manhood 
to join the queue of media barons. 

Truncated lord becomes unbuttoned; 
truth condition wavering. 
Not again the ride through fire 

Me and you are untying 
the nuggets of tomorrow. 
Death and dew will decide the venue of the event. 

Go on beating the microthin 
smile on the face of the moon. 
Clouds are rising without me.

The Tragic Intimacy

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A crisp moon rejects the night, 
the words retreat, like fallen truths. 
Stillness was palpable 
silhouettes moved in vacancy. 
And we did not know where to go, 
how to find the cause of life. 
World surged forward like a spider. 

The dust, the heat 
and a breathing sorrow 
met in the twilight 
of immaculate pain. 
I hated the drooping lights 
and burning of feathers. 
Birds were dumb 
to say how cruel 
the benevolence had been. 

I fell upon a thorn 
who witnessed my incarceration. 
A fire in my eyes, I glowed like a volcano. 
Fogs were hanging 
like veils on eyes of moon. 
I tasted lichens in mouth. 
The tragic intimacy 
of an old poem.

Stripping To The Bones

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Now me, now not, 
a thought is always there. 
My genes navigate on collapsing walls, 
words, dark mind, broken dreams. 
But thought is always there. 
I hold on firmly to sounds, 
voices, tongues, 
the thought is always there. 

Brain goes into a nameless friction, 
of aimless voyage 
I rediscover the myth and abandon the zone of thoughts. 
Distance becomes a wailing music. 
Sitting between the flesh and bones 
I recognise the relic of a window. 

Let us dropp the years, 
become timeless, empty and hollow. 
Egocentric wind violates the lungs. 
We cannot sing in praise of earth. 
I walk through the body, 
stripping to the bones, to find the seeds. 
I refuse to pluck the flowers.

When You Peel The Moon

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Turgid freedom of nondescript 
energy moves on the 
secret circuits of nude gods. 
Thy body politic breaks into splinters of million thoughts. 
When the dusty winds 
settle on our faces, it is a holy bath. 
The neutral sky perceives it, 
lapses into silence. 

Poor vision of builders, 
carries an abstract frame for the silver screen. 
We peer in dark 
to find the blasts, 
culture of giant legs was the essence of truth 
descends deep in crevices. 
The technique brings the broken images. 

In your mind lies the whole history of a tree. 
You don’t remember. 
When you peel the moon, 
your tongue falters. 
Of several centuries 
the grief stricken bird recites a poem. 
Come beside me, 
I will tell you the name.

Catch A Butterfly

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Deep lies the truth, unfathomed, 
you cannot touch it. 
Crossing the faceless matrix, 
do not reach the level, 
reasoning flattens the spikes. 
On sand, elixir falls 
like drops from awakening. 
Arising from sorrow, 
mustiness fills your eyes. 

This was truth or untruth, 
two strokes of madness, 
wedged between night and sun. 
Silence becomes an eloquent speech. 
Each day brings silly 
statements wearing artful masks. 
Commentary on a vision fails. 

Right versus wrong. 
The conents of conflict always 
linked the fear with poverty of a Being. 
The involuted self uncurls 
a scheme of war with a big world. 
Now the smiles catch 
a butterfly to immitate the colors.

The Stink

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Eyes will speak, not the road. 
I am going very far. 
Ability to suffer was me. 

Landmarks had spinned, 
the art abducted. 
Was it unlucky for defying life? 

Who wore the guilt, 
for choosing pomegranates, 
for the blasts? 

Now I am struck on midway, 
annihilating the adequacy, 
the thrust for good and bad. 

I survive the stink. 
Blood spilling on quivering lips, 
that God was nowhere in sight.

Plasma Oozing

Folder: 
Satish Verma

We listened deeply to the sounds 
of seed power of duality. 
I was very restive 
there was no time to review 
the veracity of benevolence. 
It was a flight of songs, 
a passage through silence. 

The event and nonevent, 
became burning topics enslaving the angles of lips 
and splitting the smiles. 
If you wanted to feel the truth, 
you must undergo splendid mutation, 
to read the grains, 
the sun, the rains. 

Here comes the moon 
sailing on dry bones 
of our trivialities; 
of our banalities, 
shutting off our thoughts. 
Multiples of our arts, 
our performances, 
had the plasma oozing 
from our buried themes.

Sky Weeps

Folder: 
Satish Verma

My fear becomes the courage 
to pursue the truth, 
the basic abandonement. 
I must go after the dark 
stepping on hot leads of pain. 
Truth does not stalk, 
it burns the fingers on your face 
for a self-portrait. 

Evidence of borders gives 
the catastrophic miss 
let us abolish the centre. 
No body will now 
measure the distance. 
We will move at periphery 
on a trajectory of truth 
within the eternity 
of larger boundary. 

Why you live in future, 
opposing today, 
to put away the past? 
That was my eternal question. 
You felled a tree with a terrible bang. 
My heart aches. 
Water moves in sudden spurts 
of nightmare. Sky weeps.