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

Plasma Oozing

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

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.

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.