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

Pride Of Valley

Satish Verma

When the battle lines were drawn, 
the only mandate 
for the human torpedo was to blow up 
the silence of time. 

Sick was the death-struck 
new born, praise of the ghost of tiger 
in the name of glory of green eyes. 
The orange moon was absolutely naked; 

the snow dripped in a cave to form a cone 
and the valley was burning wide. 
The bag of charcoal given 
to a shephered had turned into gold- 

nuggets at home. The vultured sky 
was claiming more bodies. 
A miracle was swelling the crowd 
and the crown was proud of deaths.

Killing Zone

Satish Verma

If you walk straight under the 
shadow of moon, to the salt lake 
death will blow a long whistle. 
Everything was ruined in war of words. 

There was no peace in the heart, 
even after meditation, the mind 
drove for the flesh, caressing neither 
blameless womb nor Oedipus. 

The dead forefathers goad the hypocrisy 
till the blood spurts out from 
the black navel of centuries 
and the forgiveness stands naked.


Satish Verma

Sound of footfalls was drawing near; 
the tiger has been set free. 
In the wild landscape you need 

some feverfew. Death was constantly 
stalking to trade off the dolls in 
lieu of sameness of the stones. 

The shifting sand drips in the eyes. 
Face to face we come near the blind 
ruins of today, denying the questions. 

Who was responsible for the dark 
skulls in the ragbag and explosions 
near the granite temples? 

Your face was not on the poster, but 
you write the lessons to interrogate 
the past. The gods are not visible.


Satish Verma

A silent war with oneself 
devouring all the cells, 
the gory remains of words 
and grainy kisses of tears. 

A curved hook in the mouth 
to start a prayer for the freedom 
from whispers of brand and labels: 
liberation from the weight of testaments. 

Bruised glints from the flesh dripping, 
wriggle on serene rocks of resolution, 
before the sin was discovered. A poem 
was awarded to me for excitement. 

An eye and a mirror, a gulch and a stone. 
The smiles are fatal, the blood is pure. 
Hot sun bakes the sand, nudges the 
skull and a pal of gloom settles for eternity.

Fighters At Large

Satish Verma

A nebula rises unfazed after fission: 
after a fractured debate, greed crouching on 
the wrinkled noses of rugged bouncers. 
In remote history someone was burning itself out. 

A black eye surges forward, sings an ode to 
championship. Ankles swell up. Veins become 
jelly. The thyme is absent. Stink bellows on 
your faces. The green pond becomes red; tragedy of wounds. 

Speaker in bloody silence quotes the black sun 
out of despair. Everything was in disarray. 
In mating of souls flesh flew in rage; 
a pink river swamped the inmates of tomorrow. 

Enough! Time marches on the dead leaves of sorrow. 
My candle burns at both ends. Alien moons 
keep a watch. Bloodlines are obliterating. We 
seek the graves of unknown soldiers!

The Other Smile

Satish Verma

Death will not measure 
the height, 
from which we fall. 
Not being, 
the psyche of primeval fear 
finds its conscience – 

subverts the softness 
of moon-eyed life 
with wealth of green blood 
in brown bread. 

And the white candle 
burns at night 
to send aurora borealis 
in blue irises.

Shifting Pain

Satish Verma

A silent wrath sits in a pool 
of blood, will start a battle 
over the footprints of sponges 
who soaked the history. 
The flow of endurance, lava on 
the tongue triggers discontent 
for a riot of spawned hunger. 
One transparent self under the rocks 
moans, falls to explosion, sways in 
dim smoke. For the authenticity of future 
we are killing the serpent 
who drinks milk 
from your hands 
and protects your treasure. 
The tranquility is little bloated 
like grape seed extract.

A Replica

Satish Verma

You go down in the dry pool 
foraging for the political errors, 
irisprints, a certain desire of revolt, 
any skeleton to identify the victim. 
An awful claim, the accuser was becoming accused. 

For namesake somebody was dying 
unceremoniously for holding tuberculosis. 
Dots did not help. Washed and dried curses 
went into the background. There was a cease-fire 
for sometime but the guns will start blazing 
any day on fake pretexts. 

The ending of pain or pain of ending begins. 
The past was chasing, future uncertain, present 
is ugly. Peahen likes the tail not the crown. 
Peacock is on tree and on fire. Deflection 
of sun marks the beginning of eclipse. 

A word falls from a crossword puzzle, makes 
a history. Death was in crucible, dualism 
will survive. The long beard of a terrorist 
becomes brown with age. The train is screeching 
to halt. There was a landslide.


Satish Verma

Under the tree of learning 
of another life, the primitive father arrives. 
Casts a spell of wisdom, between sorrow and death 
with a speck of tears in circle of beings. 
But a rain-soaked serpentine path leads to a ravine. 

A talisman reignites the fear of unknown. 
Panic grips the roots, branches, green-leaved hopes. 
Cambium stops working, cutting the flow of nutrients. 
The lady of darkness descends on the boulders 
of truth, piercing through the layers of light ruffling 
the winds of change. 

Devotees splatter the red wine on the cupped palms 
of priest and ask, who was responsible 
for long life of knife. No reliable intellectual 
wants to become a bartender. 
Nobody dares to play the Realpolitik.