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

Like A Chinese Lantern

Folder: 
Satish Verma

At the end of the thought 
was sadness. 
When temple lies broken 
a little white lotus comes up 
on the tranquil lake. 

A cute word enters the lone voice, 
stands down, collapses, retreats into silence. 
A chaste tree becomes a sage 
and tenderness of the ash turns into an elegy. 

The moon-face has frost on the eyes. 
Tears blaze the lips. 
Unbounded grief holds the space between 
sobs, a bodiless spark. 

Moons ago when sleep was a fragrant 
gift, the song never touched the earth. 
That dream sways like a Chinese lantern 
without enthusiasm.

A Dream After The Demise

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Man becomes a bee 
assaulting a rosebud. 
Death, do not punish for unlived years 
when Budha was sitting inside me. 

At center stage a dance begins 
wading through salvia and absinthes. 
The soil craves for the roots, 
lake was not deep enough to sail. 

Stem cells resume the debate 
tapping the amniotic fluid. 
Salt lick becomes lethal in midnight syndrome. 
It was a tall claim. 

The beards hang in rows, testing 
the impatience of the system. A line 
of funerals becomes longer, on burning beach, 
where god and beast meet in dark.

Beautifully Indescribable

I see her looks are naught but beautifully indescribable

I would say she is of passion like flames but her eyes are of frost
Their chill leaves me breathless like a cold winter so reliable
And at the end of the day I would know that I would drift to sleep so lost
And her body of gentle curves that are so pleasing to my sight
But in the inside she is slightly rigid in only the best of ways
And her soft voice induces such lull that even the rested couldn't fight
But she speaks proud words that would make any man gaze
And upon that gaze they would find themselves a girl so desirable
But they don't know why, for once again, she is beautifully indescribable 
 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Did I contradict the purpose of the poem? Did I describe her beauty? Or is it just cotton mouthed rambling? I don't know. For the reader to decide I suppose 

One Hundred Laments

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Trading the sweetness, a rainbow 
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks 
and drink the elixir of death. 
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler, 
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass. 
The pink goddess of wealth 
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica 
will decide the future of grass. 

The moon ride has become cheaper in cans 
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god. 
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats 
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons 
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable 
in groves jacarandas were smiling. 

Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers 
between the pages of history 
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.

Farewell

Folder: 
Satish Verma

They will not allow the assisted suicide. 
The beetles; fiery and drunk. 

After the betrayal of arithmetic, 
the spiral staircase. 

Fireflies set foot on the skies 
to measure the darkness. 

The fire between us, of burning fat, 
of thousand years, terrifies me. 

Moon bleeds on grass, I prick the 
voice of the hugging earth. 

The salt of the lips now hurts 
it was your parting kiss, O sun! 

History

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Focused on burgundy palms 
as the age blinks, 
you start distressing on a unipolar 
pinnacle, biting the nails. 
The road absorbs the horizon. 

Perched on a controversial tree 
the birds break into small events 
to reach the grass roots. A transparent question 
always chases you about the consequence 
of a war with troubled priests. 

Do we need nitrous oxide to offset the gloom 
of hovering religion? One enchanted 
crowd spills in copycats to bring about 
a revolution in ranks who were busy 
in translating the epics of past.

Enunciation

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Entering into hypersonic gridlock 
you become one of the crowd; 
remain devastated, slip into unconciousness, 

defer to a calibrated emblem and speak 
untainted. The debris was taking to the 
street. The trees were drinking from 

geyser basins, mutated restraint. The crow 
was taking a bath in milk, to show that 
it has no venom. Or rather no controversy 

for a tedium death. That is the stripping of 
ambition, till the light arrives. Darkness 
will reap the grains of sorrow. The fire 

digs out the secret bones. You cannot stop 
the whipping of skulls which were without thoughts, 
when silence was bidding for lips.

A Short Declaration of Our Being

I am but an awestruck fool to your beauty
However, your filtered eyes simply pass it over
To remove these filters, is now my primary duty
So that you will one day be your own lover
 
You are but a simple dream in my head
There for a moment, in the next, gone
But now, I just lay in my soft bed
To begin my dream again until the dawn
 
We are but some teenage antics
But you know of antics I am quite fond
But now I rest my display of semantics
As I close my eyes and dream of a blonde

The Predicament

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Joined by the funeral, we sit down, 
under the blue sky, fire watching, sequentialling 
the processions. Ultimately one by one they come, 
to dust, hands turned down. After close of the rainbow 
there is an explosion and a transition 
censored by stone age. They flee from the shrapnels 
to swathe in bioluminence of death. The penury 
makes a fanciest atrocity. 

A pockmarked moon stands there to listen 
the scandalized whispers of crulest legends 
in century’s hopelessness, guilt’s bleeding. 
You never chained the voice of booms. A god 
mourns in fading light.