# #betrayal #life #forgivness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #poetry #broken

One Anthos

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Someone connects a bonsai to elemental peat. 
Your visual collides a clay bite 
of water, deepening the bottom of invisible fence. 
My primrose was waiting for you. 

Polychromes become volatile. An inventive 
missile leaves the trace for a predator to scoop 
an angel. I was afraid of wrinkles, the 
disjunctive pain. Only an insane can walk 
over the fire. The cat’s claw will take hold of freedom, 
the bleeding wound of mutual hate. 

I sit listening to ceasefire, shirtless soldiers 
cleaning their guns, you still seek the empty vessel.

Dying Screams

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Shall we go like innocents with heavy 
breathing in the pool of blood to find 
the innerconnectivity of a boldly beautiful 
death? In the open pit of an ancient gold mine? 

There was a loss of hidden dance, in the 
cancer striken human chain, chiseled on the 
grey walls of history. The artifacts stolen, even 
the ankle-bells of a toddler had gone up for a sale. 

A visual oval gives a liable comment. A 
flame nauseates a baby doll. The yellow hornbill 
puts up a fight for the sake of memories. 
There is a huge silence of the rocks, moaning inwardly 

None of me was a god. A simple slum’s promised 
dream.Hungry roads will lead to a ruined temple.

Flesh And Bones

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Signs versus shadows in city 
of reasons burst amnion. 
White cranes manipulate black clouds, 
smudge the nomenclature. 

I want to become deaf 
in grazing blasts. Young lovers 
dance on machetes; nifty wounds 
of red alpines. 

Thieves loot the basket of zodiac, 
death on tall trees. 
Even the grief has enemies, 
for another farewell to sky. 

You could hear the finger tapping 
on the empty belly of little girl 
from the broken childhood, not allowed 
to scream loudly. 

Will the sanity grieve on the charred 
remains of a virgin, in the exiled home 
of a brave truth? Then two little hands 
will thump again in fog?

Random Sin

Folder: 
Satish Verma

In pinnate physicals, the thing, 
moves like a stark terror 
savagely. A primal fear 

takes over, because dead don’t 
speak. The bullet had passed 
through chest. Mutiny of dumb 

dandelions, lipless voices in the 
sea of madness. Search for a missing 
truth begins. The mass grave 

contains the dried bones of renegades. 
You remember the promise? Who said 
we will end the war? 

Listen, he bows his head, before 
the trespassing starts to kidnap the 
bed. Jealousy kills the snakes.

Death Of Absence

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Gladioli stand in a tantric daze 
under siege of prism. The colors fall dangling, 
unsettling silent memories. 

I thought I was nervous 
while playing a smell game of wild guns, 
when tanks were rolling out on streets. 

A final farewell before exiting 
the garden, in my ceremony of death. 
A child lies down waiting for the boots. 

The wheat grass of beggers, 
never to mourn a falling cloud 
undesires a dropp of blood on tongue spilling on skin. 

A terrified leaf disturbs a mirror, 
civilized image of a private crystal, beyond 
the virulence of hiding legs.

Air Was Naked

Folder: 
Satish Verma

After the putsch, through night he set himself alight 
ensnared in flames of societal conflicts, for a 
vision of tomorrow, in the birth of a bloody dawn. 
The drone of history had failed on a loaded salt. 

A solitary murder of truth was sufficient to unsettle 
me for a downturn of unborn wounds of drowned 
voice, of a requiem. The dead were coming back to life 
in dark alleys of black skulls. The pink scarves 

were still holding the snow flakes of standing 
wheat for the thirsty children, of grieving mothers 
who lost the homes to red hands, the white paper, 
the hungry guns. The thieves were coming again. 

I was never naked in my blood, my howling bones.

Against Deportation

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Ahead of pain, we did not cry; 
intimating of dreams, crowded; 
stranded on issues, reaching nowhere. 

Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon 
in half-sleep. You can open the door 
without sound. The snake writhes under your feet. 

A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green 
urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns 
the darkness for any possibility of light. 

The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled 
fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely 
cosmos; goldilocks starts howling. 

Terror strikes again in offering, so far 
about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat 
sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end.

Bound By Ceiling

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Sitting at the edge of a bubble 
uncooled, trying to light an eternal flame of anonymity; 
counter the wrangler, one skull in each hand, 
of ancestors, you prepare for the crime of breaking 
the umbilical cord. 

Ostracized, you forge the ariel in arid zone, 
burned, one patch on the eye, rubber thighs, 
sniped at, lay still in a pool of blood, 
in cauldron of terror, the brilliance of sun cracks 
the marble statues. 

Avarice of black boots mirrors the borewell; 
washes out the color of smiles on blue lips. 
Fireflies sink in darkness of punishment.

Blind Swings

Folder: 
Satish Verma

gradients 
vivid, humbling 
I was collecting a bit of myself 

reading anatomy 
of animality 
spawning the hidden eggs 

flecks of echos scarring: 
reconnecting to starry night 
I could not hold my enrged otherself 

and the homely smell of gunshots 
orchestrated to send a message of 
mayhem – for optic illusion 

the reptiles have broken 
the law for an oceanic boat 
collecting the golden fish 

on the burning ghats, streetscape 
full of falling leaves and 
bloody wings of black crows