Avant-Garde

Future will find you
one day. I am trying to forget me.
The deadly avalanche was revengeful.

I don't want to
go into comma. I was not alone in the
firing range. Impeachment was not the answer.

Smell of burning grass
purrs the rising pride to commit a
sin of saving the scorpions.

Satish Verma

Vision Fails After Sunset

This was inhuman.
I was asked to become human. Why
I should not write biographical poems?

O blue moon, let's go
to serene lake, where we kiss the
horizon. When time stops.

Reopening the book of.
Mercy was very painful. The
wounds started crying in your absence.

Satish Verma

Love Me Again

Who was the predator?
A moon or the sun in the dark? Life demands
full justice for a fallen tear from the brown eye.

Accrued to the temple
wall. Sleep with me I tell the poem
for you. The book is on fire.

Hibiscus again looks at
me drinking from my cupped hands
shaking violently without wind. Rest is history.

Satish Verma

I Was Your Destiny

Nature calls agenda.
It pulls my heartstrings walking in
moonless night to find fireflies.

Hiding in a beehive,the
annual rings cut your years ikn pain
Echoes were waiting in hope.

The sap refuses to rise.
Brown marks on your face are
becoming darker. I Will cross you in water.

Satish Verma

Parenthesis

Sometimes you overthink
in the evening. The night has the
receding line of purple love.

Open the light. How
many lives you have? Your life is being
written, but you were not the author.

Your slanted brown lives
always reflect a broken world,where
words wander to find the page of heart.

Satish Verma

Is it togetherness?

To be or not to be ready,
to outreach my ethnic pain? To be
absent, when I sit to think about you?

Waiting for the half-moon
to cross the galaxy of paradoxical
pause, to be condemned to go for poetica?

On the outskirts of the god’s
unknown home, will you get freedom to create
love, happiness and a temple?

Satish Verma

Why This Madness

Its thorns hurt, I still
love the rose, remaining unhappy.
No repeal. Life illuminates.

On the terrace I go to
talk to the moon. I will speak less.
I want to see the lips quivering.

This continues. The vital
existence of catching stars. This injures
but I will stand in dark.

Satish Verma