22 May, 2017

Beyond Discernment

The last thing
I wanted to say before
the sun went down.

Heal thyself, Oh
seer, stoking the flames
under the lake.

fall of your climax―
for golden calf.

Like a hen in blind
panic, under the spell
of innocent blade.

Satish Verma

Clean Hands

Deeply troubled inside,
I become silent
like a quiet, serene sea.

Impatience. It
has erupted again in my
hardened mood.

Playing a gamble
without a dice. An unmasked
body trembles.

I will ask my
river goddess one day―
where was my moon?

Exploding in its
face, the enigma had never
any physical.

Making things easier for you.
I stand in the moment of truth
on flames.

Satish Verma

21 May, 2017

Clinging To Hope

Revealing id,
without ego, and hunger.

I may not touch
you ever, placing my palm
down face on the burning candle.

Step by step I come
near you and move away
collecting my pins.

The medallion still hangs
in the cleavage.

You will throw your head
backward and laugh in misty chimes.

The skiagram shows the increased
vascularity. Would you come
if I don't call you?

We will smell together
the parting lips, trying to say
love, but unannounced.

Satish Verma

A Leap Of Faith

Nothing left to do
anything today.
Snow falling incessantly.

Did not believe ever
in shortcuts.
Still moving on legs.

Soundlessly I
meet my strange god
under a sickle moon.

Faraway my old
faith listens―
to the footsteps of dawn.

Satish Verma

19 May, 2017

It Hurts

You start forgetting
the absence of
existence. Wishing to remain
dead for sometime― to see what you did't
want to see in the hands of god.

A tricky aura
overlaps the consciousness―
of proxy war. Someone
cries out for the earth's hug.
Wolves start howling. This
was a stainless murder.

I get nightmares. Craft
slips from the tongue. You
must decide for yourself, who
was a clean angel. Door was
locked, key in your pocket.
You cannot move in the absence of proof.

I told you, we are heading
towards the Apocalypse.

Satish Verma

Where A God Sleeps

At the end of the day,
standing before a shut window―
in fear of power game
under a cataract of twilight.

A panther had visited
again at night in your courtyard―
to sniff out the
hidden moons.

Your ism was on fire.
Logic gone. The weird neighbors
had become bedfellows.

A dirty war will ensue
between the translation and
original script, in fake
and real.

You slap a drum. Pathos.
I have reached where I
did not want to.

Satish Verma

18 May, 2017

The Shaken Faith

the oil lamps floating
on the holy river, have
started bleeding.

So much blood had spilled
on the street, after
slitting the throats of a
runaway couple.

This was not my religion.

Do not steal me from my
footsteps, wounded by
the gifts given by you, I
will not come back.

I have stopped reading our gods.

It was the lynching of the savior.
Let me count the dots and―
dashes, the unsaid crimes
of opening the text books.

Satish Verma