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

Scent Will Be Buried

Satish Verma

This way it was 
this way it happened 
I could not run along the river. 

Your face floats 
like a skylamp. 
Halfway rainbow was broken. 

How did it happen? 
I became transgenic 
by the kiss of death. 

This was my victory 
I surrendered the cushion. 
You sleep in my arms. 

Again I will wander 
in the graveyard 
where my angel was sleeping. 

This is my last letter 
in the month November 
Now the scent will be buried in snow.

Return To Myself

Satish Verma

Dumbly you come 
to the brink of a precipice, 
at the point of no return. 
Moving, pivoting with 
a huge perception. 
Knowing that life was exacting, 
you are alive, 
alone with a conflict. 
Your choosing was a miracle. 

Seeking was not ending. 
Death was an inadvertent mistake. 
You lie down in terror. 
Deep in the bones you know, you have to move. 
There was no cloud above the eyes, 
history was an aberration- 
rags to riches. 

You become yourself 
when death defines a name 
and I remember a sunset. 
My shaking fingers 
weave a drape of sorrow. 
There was no patch of green 
I return to myself.

Holds Me Green

Satish Verma

The cult 
catches you 
like a black hole. 

You cannot scale the walls - 
slide back 
in a crucible. 

Like fried insects 
crisp and dry. 
Witch-hunt starts. 

Sky was blue 
in eyes, 
winds will divide the space. 

Do you need a mediator 
to read between the lines? 
To cross the fence? 

Who sucked me dry? 
Who leeched me white? 
Death holds me green!


Satish Verma

How sad you had been 
without wholeness for the, 
price of having broken shoulders? 
The people were shedding their skins 
to wear new masks. 
I was haunted in my sleep. 
Sun was not rising. 

House to house from face to face, 
death makes a pause. 
Time sits for a while, when 
we mourn in silence. 
A scream halts in our throats. 
In the courtyard a pungent smell spreads. 
Atrophied limbs tremble. 

The elegance foresakes the human touch. 
The river dries up, 
sucked in by laments of earth. 
The unfolding of wounds 
festers on cheeks. 
Lips sluicing the grief, 
spill benediction!

A Cuckoo Sings

Satish Verma

Rain, come again, 
full of promise & truth. 
0Endless onslaughts on my garden 
have damaged the trees of light, 
destroying my butterflies in dark. 
Death was my private thing, 
moon, come again. 

Deep in my throat 
a cuckoo sings for a queen of darkness, 
to invite the mists & clouds, 
I cannot speak for now. 
Ancient history is repeating the story. 
At dawn the shadows are gone. 

From unknown to unknown 
a thought moves 
impinging the landmarks. 
I pick up the nameless pebbles. 
Time crashes, death and life play a game, 
memories wear the grey 
costumes of fear & pain.

From Death To Death

Satish Verma

What do I do with the words? 
They hurt, they flourish without thoughts, 
destroying the civilities. 
The sky cannot hold the conflict. 
The strange friction 
of the image blurs the colors. 
Love has become a cauldron. 

A tough question 
tries to penetrate in my skin. 
I come out of my body, 
peeling off the conflicts 
from the timeless silence. 
The voices of doom hang on the trees. 
Somewhere the tears 
turn into watermark. 

Not afraid of afterlife 
I am ready 
from death to death. 
Another autumn 
will take away all my greens, 
water & grace. 
But primordial smile 
has a history of matching a face, 
with the dead.

A Handful Of Victories

Satish Verma

Where death 
and exotica meet, 
life stands naked 
in midst of our sacred hymns, 
Shadow fighting is not actuality. 
An essay on truth fades. 
Someday I will pull down the curtain. 

At the end of the road, death waits, 
apologizing for coming unannounced. 
A white cloud drifts in our arms. 
The deep sorrow walks with us 
and the empty home, 
now belongs to moonlight. 

In nothingness our achievement claims. 
A handful of victories, 
tossing here and there. 
The empty words transport 
the dark lies. 
The truth lies bleeding, 
and we flee, 
from our predictions.

The Nirvana

Satish Verma

Tracing the primordial culture of truth 
in its oneness, we find the ultimate answer. 
Still the negative effect prevails 
increasing the confusion. 
Existence in now, has a travesty of truth. 
Can we breakaway from our past? 

Can we exist between right and wrong? 
Between good and evil? 
Between truth and fiction? 
How many faces has reality? 
The Self amalgamates the formulations 
provides the mind with the safe exits. 

The visualization 
was not a happening, not actuality 
an escape from pain & reality? 
The thoughts were always disturbing 
creating a false identity. 
Thoughtless self had no movement. 
Was that the nirvana? 
The final moksha?

Dying Beautifully

Satish Verma

I stay connected out of the body, 
with fireworks, 
to widen the relativity, 
to read the language of fear. 
Death of a tree was mourned 
by leaves in shadow. 
The dew lies awake crying. 

The town was disappearing 
without a dialogue 
with past, we were digging our heritage. 
In search of roots 
life was killing the tomorrow. 
You an answer seeking 
which was not yet born. 
Over the mind 
an ancient prayer floats. 

The house was on fire 
the words cannot cover the flaming body. 
It was dying beautifully. 
The space between the memories 
will shrink and we will destroy 
the ugly calender.