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

Flowering Of The Thought

Satish Verma

to unbelonging 
was becoming a method 
exploring the path. 
In the backyard unpleasant fumes 
were rising. 

Nocturnal swoop of enlightment, 
clearly becomes a festival 
of yellow death. 
Who was hiding the truth? 

Flowering of the thought in sky 
ripens cessation of grief. 
Slopes and summits, 
bring tears in eyes. 

Solace of ancestral home 
was gone. Bold ceilings were hung by ungodly fears. 
Wet hands lift the body of past, 
classical future was gleaming slowly.


Satish Verma

Small things were 
witness to genes 
of freak mutation. 
Tooth in eye 
becoming boat in blindness. 

Witch hazel 
fails to stop leakage. 
Thumb with beads of lymph 
stung high in stillness, 
wants to peel off 
the concept of injury. 

A brace 
stops the smile. 
Blue-chips have nothing to offer. 
A king had hemophilia. 
Timbers drip the blood 
from heartwood 
dropp by drop.

Death Was Very Genial

Satish Verma

In the service of flesh 
new vision was perfecting a cult; 
silence was going home. 

It was not there 
freedom of defense for bread, but 
I must pay the price of hunger. 

The oblique afterthought 
compelled by nocturnal infidelity 
picks up the black threads, 
minute by minute. 
Death was very genial. 

Comes silently behind the cacti - 
across the intelligent green. 
One has to pay for touching greatness. 

The thoughts will never go 
from the unwinking eyes. 
I was listening to the footsteps.


Satish Verma

There was a strange carnality 
in flowing robes, 
a waiver penetrates 
in incorporeal ellipse. 
I must speak of him in his absence 
combating for the actuality. 

Knowing lust manifolds, 
yields a prayer, 
primrose opens the eyes. 
The knowledge liberating - 
you cross the inlets. 

Anxiety peels off your mind. 
An obnoxious presence of unbeings, 
the weeds, the vocal generation 
of priests, are anything but art. 

The body blooms, in suicidal note. 
Birds shriek, before the moon climbs 
on the dark trees. I let go the orange, 
only the white spreads.

Aloneness Of Fire

Satish Verma

He was asking for, at least, 
a passive euthanasia. 

Rage or hostility 
was giving pain to phantom limbs. 
Race puts forth, 
a trembling version 
of ethnic choice. 
A piped dream 
which never took off. 

On middle of the road 
a dragon rumbles, 
hissing flames. 
Something not on the left 
not on the right. 
Cannot keep the sky open. 
Nothing moves now, 
not even leaves of a lone tree. 

There was a random cry 
unheard in the aloneness of fire.


Satish Verma

There was existence, 
without space. 
I was afraid of my unborn child. 

Inheriting the stammer 
of history 
I could not think of any brand abuse. 

On the contrary, fumes 
throw you off the road. 
Full moon rising on the cleft. 

I was, as I am, never being 
to any threat of drowning 
in contradictions. 

A dignity in withdrawl 
and coming back after sunset – 
to walk in night, alone.

Blazing Trail

Satish Verma

They swim like tadpoles. 
I was waiting at the far end of pond. 

Heartburn increases at dusk, 
fierce battle of blazing stripes 
on blankets. 

On the scarlet face 
a bridge was burning 
in wide open eyes. 

Somebody takes an aim 
hauling a runaway bruise. 
Blood comes out roaring. 

Weep, my stars, 
ice was thin – 
drowning the lake.


Satish Verma

Your lips were me. 
I wanted a kiss 
which never came. 

Insertion of a word, was committed 
my wings took a flight 
for anonymity. 

To keep suffering alive 
truth was accepting the hurts. 
I was not speaking for myself. 

Who was me to want a praise 
for the custodian of morality? 
Something for my name? 

I must salute the fallen fingers, 
who did not write death – 
for my hugging blankness.

Will You Marry Me?

Satish Verma

Sky weeps, I was collecting clouds 
from stillness of the sea. 
A snake again wants to kiss, 
I am learning to die 
in arms of spiral mirrors. 

Cannot forgot the cheating of umbrellas. 
The stings, the twists, the hollow breads. 
Foams are submitting the venoms 
on golden plates. 
I grieve for the dignity of a hangman. 

The retreat leaves the blood 
on the stones. My house was burning. 
Will you marry me? I ask the dew 
sitting on the grass. Don’t go 
back to the sun. 

A relentless bucket fills up, again 
I am watching at the moon. 
The icy sand, the fire, the heat. 
Flowers will hunt the thorns 
at rooftops of sleep.