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

Love & Pain

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Perhaps you know, 

that you do not know, 

the moment of truth is here, 

and we are at the cross roads. 

 

Night is without a cloud 

and crescent moon is questioning a star. 

Ghost of strayed peace 

has slided back in dark. 

Pure chemistry of love is boiling. 

 

Planting the tender flowers on lips 

I find nothing. I think I will go 

for a new lover. 

Strawberry was your choice, 

but I always craved blue berries. 

Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart. 

 

Your eyes are unreadable, 

a watery grave of pain. 

Something impossible should happen 

Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.

 

The Redundant

Folder: 
Satish Verma

In a temple without god, 
They performed a cryptcastration on a colossus, 
targeting a total annihilation, 
and liquidation of a beautiful saga. 
And then, layer by layer unspeakable pain was released. 

Nobody looked at my red eyes. 
Half dead, half alive, groaning, spurting, dumb, dishevelled. 
I was shouting, running in the dark alley, 
the legendary mountain has collapsed. 
From the cocoons come out skeletons. 
Not true, not true, they were crying in unison. 

Archaeopteryx without apron looks scary, 
Let’s move to a different showcase 
see the birth of a Caesar. How it rises from 
the womb of democracy? How the thaw comes in a glacier? 

The eyes of a tyrant sometimes look gloomy. 
Is it possible to start a bonfire of lover’s coat in the chair? 
Cast off the milkteeth and start from void? 
Stretching the boundaries of death and immortality? 
I am terribly confused and burned out. 

The astral bodies sometimes look so good to me, 
faraway from this ugly world. 
At least they shine in their own light. 
But we were always busy counting our awards 
of gold thread, earned by dark strategies, 
to make other feel small and ashamed! 

You were talking, of self inflicting injuries 
was a way of life, 
with some people to purify their souls. 
But I was wondering about soulless people. 
How much they were pollulted and blackened 
inside their lungs? 

Strange it appears to talk about spirituality 
in a slum of poor thinkers 
where we were living beyond death.

Nothingness And Being

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Sometimes lurking in corner. 
Sometimes tumbling down 
endlessly, 
and sometimes with frozen smile 
immolating oneself 
before an idol to be. 

He danced imprisoned in a glass case 
whole life. 
Overcoming the pretentious inhibition 
to stand naked in dimlights 
of arguments. 

He started a dialogue 
about the disquietening habits 
of killing each other with sharp tongues. 
I said death and life are two suggestions 
worth consideration. A clump disdain in between. 

The birds are circling again in sky. 
Someone is going to die. 
Avians knew the travesty of existence. 
Question of self praise 
ultimately drowns 
in melody of being.

Ressurection

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The wind writes a name on the clouds 
and sun wipes out the letters. 
This game continues daily. 
coming into life after every death. 

Exhausted I want to believe 
and make up my mind to go 
for a new birth. 

The resentment has accumulated 
all the life 
against the futility of winning a race. 
In the end you reach no where. 

A void impossible to fill. 
The years monitored, lay waste 
something to die.

No, No I'M No Ovid!

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A useless space between the sentences, 
ghastly story does not end in black and white. 
Again the heart cries. 
I keep on knocking on the doors 
and then return to blackness. 

Sometimes people become insects. 
Cockroaches, ants and spiders, 
weaving their webs and hills, 
crawling, creeping, clawing. 
Flesh eaters. Pouncing upon hapless victims. 

Depression. I am devastated. 
Something churns in breast, dousing the spirit, lines and words. 
Cannot sit quiet. Agoraphobia. Don’t want to talk. 
Somewhere a name crops up. Saint or beast. 
Under the trees there is no shade. I walk barefoot. 
Hungry dogs chasing the flies. 
Humidity fills the eyes. 

Silence of the night. 
City has stopped running. 
All the dead will speak now. 
Not asking any revenge, 
but peace for the living people.

Sysiphus

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Let it go, do not touch it, 
you had been negating the bare truth. 
I was part of you 
once at the shore of tragedy. 
Life was treacherous 
and I was free to laugh. 

Come September and I will be chasing 
the fireflies again. 

How time takes revenge 
from the innocent commitments? 
You start returning to your roots 
and I was still surfeiting 
on the secret fidelity. 

Where was the need to be tied down 
to god? No body was honest to forsake 
the fear of nameless nemesis. 

The myth of rock still haunts. 
Water still boils under the clay. 
Petals fly in dark alleys 
and I cannot find the door.

The Indomitable

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Till last moment, life can produce a meaning. 
Of sky, stars and space between darkness and light. 
I am not going to weigh the burden 
and insult the ‘how’ of impossible, 
so much is still to finish. 
I am not going to commit suicide. 

Are there any takers of grass, of moon 
and scented winds? 
the borderline is very vague between 
ecstasy and depression. 

A bit of silence, a patch of sunlight 
I drink my cup from the tranquil hands. 
I am water, I am fire 
The fear is not going to dissipate me.

Holy Wings

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The twisted moon 
moved horizontally, 
plunged in cleavage 
of dark trees 
eating the stars. 

Aloneness; midnight dream, 
faces the wall of nails. 
Scratches on the flesh 
blood oozing. 
The benign end. 

Put off the lights, 
it helps to think clearly. 
Drape the mercy of night. 
Snake was hissing, may strike. 
A cramp will kill the joy. 

The fish will be welded 
to a candle.

Sweet Revenge

Folder: 
Satish Verma

It is, 
what do you not say 
I read the dusk 
on your eyes. 
Unspoken words 
hammering! 

A timer, 
quartz clock, 
ball bearings, pellets 
croissant of terror. 

Suspicious of the lady 
riding on crest 
responsible, 
for the happenings. 

Fear, 
hair raising, 
turns back the centuries. 
We lose, 
ourselves!