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

Scattered Thoughts

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Coming to an end the 
consecration. The land will 
not give you any god. 

Only the demons will come in your dreams. 

If it were window, the 
street will send the black 
noises in your house. 

I will not wait 
for snow-melting. 
The slum was going to be 
sliced off. 

Wet from the rainfall, 
the grain cannot be milled 
and you will not eat my sprouts. 

I cannot sail now. 
It must be very dark 
and the glossary 
very foul.

Self-Portrature

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A freak hailstorm of 
proposition, makes you― 
deaf and mute. The sex 
orientation― will not remain the same. 

It was not pink― it was not 
blue. A thunder breaks the 
roof― of calligraphy. A 
beautiful face― goes manic. 

About the harvesting― I 
would say ― it was all 
humbug. You can wear a gem 
in your eyes― and still not go stone blind. 

The prayer will have a 
summer wedding. All the― 
lavenders will bring all the 
blues and all the mauves.

Unbegotten

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Shedding the knowledge 
I was aware of emptiness, 
that will allow me 
to watch from afar― 

the message coming from 
the locked doors. 
Getting nearer the gorge 
you want to look at your spitting image― 

in water. I hinge an old frame 
to find me in baby face. Did you 
see your future visits to 
cauldron of life? 

You never wanted to become 
a god of wayfarers. A tinge 
of stupidity was evident to renew 
your faults to remain human.

No Love Song

Folder: 
Satish Verma

In black midnight, 
the white moon, like a nun 
sits stonely. 

The sliding moon is toxic 
and you are not ready to 
die for the theme. 

The high priests will 
weave the faux mantras to 
invoke the goddess of wealth. 

The debt pervades in every 
relief. I survive the ignominy 
of not touching a yogi. 

And you, little brown bread, 
will not feed the thousands 
who come clamouring for a bite.

After The Snow Storm

Folder: 
Satish Verma

It tumbles down. The real. 
Heels start hurting. 

Once upon a night, there 
was a red moon, which used to hang 
on your head and I 
would watch something beyond. 

No outburst of profanity 
will take place, when you were 
dissecting a triangle― 

of rainbows. I will not 
assemble the waist of a tall tree 
after the fruit fall. 

Gone with the snow, my 
temple, my god. I am now 
waiting for the looters of rings.

Faraway

Folder: 
Satish Verma

How much you can carry, 
carving a deep gorge 
during last rites 
of a river? 

It was a skunky remain 
of the civilized terrain 
gone berserk. 

Oh pilgrim, don’t come 
again to wash your feet 
in the snow of 
painted storks. 

Hiding behind the tattoos 
my raw galaxy perspires 
climbing the graveyard 
of old songs.

A Sombre Moon

Folder: 
Satish Verma

This is for the 
smaller gods sitting 
in rains, seeking asylum in 
snow. 

Nobody knows the 
fate of sunken erotica 
when the glacier 
melts. 

A wild rose 
sends the thorns to 
prick your conscience. 
Let the death walk 
in sleep.

Tempestuous

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Stargazing will not stop. 
The will to find the answer, 
when the glacier breaks. 

You bring the god down 
to earth. Don’t want to 
bother any door. 

A pair of fetters fastened 
around my ankles. 
I hop to the house of sadness. 

The auroral spark 
ignites the leaker. Clouds 
burst crimson with tears. 

A ring of red stones were 
markers. Here fell the divine 
spirits, climbing on water.

Unheavenly

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A boulder on my neck. 
I am climbing your 
house, O god. 

I don’t believe you. 
I trust the man, 
a committed trespasser. 

A crestfallen humanity 
walking endlessly in― 
the valley of tears, 

to find the clean water, 
the bread and roof. The 
anguish breaks the morals. 

And our painted deities, 
resting on their thrones to 
see the vultures descending.