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

The Nirvana

Folder: 
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

Folder: 
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.

Somebody Else.

 

I want to talk to you, but you're speaking with somebody else...

 

I want to lay next to you, but you're with somebody else..

 

I want to die with you, but you've already killed me..

with somebody else..

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a short one cause I'm bored..

Morning Star

Folder: 
Satish Verma

There was no beginning 
no ending. 
Beyond tomorrow 
you will be, what you were not. 
Words would disappear, 
only meaning will be left. 

The interval ceases to be 
from ’wasness’ to open pathway. 
When you are not ready 
I will be there to lift the veil. 

My total pain surges forward today. 
Quietly death opens the door 
to welcome the lost child, 
whose burden was his taste. 

Farewell to the visitors of night. 
The morning star is rising.

Lake Scenes

Folder: 
Satish Verma

DREAM 

Ambling on beach in dark 
when the lake laps the feet. 
Sometimes I wish to walk away 
on the water like a dragonfly. 

MORNING 

Trying to figure out 
what happened? 
Lake Huron went 
into flames! 

MOONLIGHT 

Up, above 
a white ship was sailing. 
On water, 
thousands of boats.

Commentries

Folder: 
Satish Verma

This was my book of pain 
with no ending. 
Life had two meanings- 
Anticipation of today, 
and fear of tomorrow. 
Time was running out 
like sand from fists, 
mists were rising, 
commentaries on setting sun had begun. 

Mind was calculating, computing all the time 
the duality of desire. 
I wanted to catch the words, 
the movement of grief, 
the completeness of a thought. 
It came as a stroke- 
the revelation of self. 

We did not want to break 
the bondage of problems. 
It was complete annihilation 
of our identity. 
We loved conflicts 
we loved to hate. 
We adored the disorientation. 
The violence of our thoughts 
created an empty wasteland.

Give Me

Folder: 
Satish Verma

They were burned alive. 
Most cherished to me, 
betraying the functionality of a system, 
interstitial asphyxiation took place. 

In the garb of a garlanded saint 
a gun booms. 
The death is rolled from tongue to tongue. 
flying limbs get strung on trees. 

A faith was in flames, 
somebody leapt from the inferno 
with folded hands, to melt into a stone 
reaching nowhere. 

Non-particles were becoming visible 
parting the sky. 
Nostalgia was possessed with belief of non-believers, 
a thought without a thinker. 

I am taking liberty, O God 
give me something to live!

Fairy Rings

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Immensity of deviation was exploding. 
Abruptly my frail frame collapsed. 
I did not know the answers. I was lost 
in my inner sanctum, full of hollow escapes. 

The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating. Not in, 
not out. I was blowing up in a burnt out moon, 
pure as sin, prodding, writhing, 
stuck in tar, melting in hot sun. 

As a projection of inner violence, a psychopath 
shoots an innocent on the temple, forsaken, revengeful. 
No qualms for grazing the godhood, 
the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool. 

The fairy rings are growing larger and larger, 
sanaria shrinking. Epileptic paranoia overpowering 
outside, I am sick, but relentless, the shadow disappears 
in valley, down the memory. I let go the blurred spirit, 
in a fit of rage, standing alone.

Fate Of Man

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The roses you bring every morning 
become an interval between hope and ending. 
Thinking about it, impulsively I 
contradict God against humanity. 

Little murder here and there 
of nihilism, sweet smell of faith, 
taking any road to reach the climax, 
to die for the zeroism. 

An outsider becomes the altered hero, 
you would find the unimaginable, 
lamenting and bleeding, blunting 
the eagerness, the spark. 

We will inherit the crowned homes, 
the brief interlude between crime and award. 
The mud, the water, the slugs 
will decide the fate of man.