This bonded fear bids for power, Will I destroy myself in valley of puppets? War in dreams, of sins and morals of masked pretentions wears me off. Time rolls violently near the periphery, before it flies away.
One chaste run to the shadow of sorrow burns you alive. Sitting on a heap of sandlewood you turn into ashes, the sweet aroma drifting between its rights and wrongs, evasions and commitments, hunting for the truth.
Great exodus of principles in green martyrdom, brings out the blood from the color of terracotta. The figures on the walls start talking in falling light, de-icing the sun, like the dust on this side of dark. The violence rises again.
Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts. You are taken aback. This is magic, profoundly soulful. In a lone, long journey Satish Verma is still discovering himself. Beaten, betrayed, felled, he comes back with fierce velocity. His childhood was traumatized by India’s partition. Terror, violence and death were witnessed which built the morals of poet. Becoming defiantly recluse Satish Verma pursued his value based life on the path of truth. Teaching Botany for 35 years he was writing poetry, privately and solemnly and published twelve collections. Worked silently with social causes. His scions, doctors and engineers are living in USA. He chose to live back in his beloved country and resides in Ajmer (INDIA) with his spouse Kanta running the Charitable Holistic Institute of SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION. He can also be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Remembering the days of old, when father raked the leaves of Golden, yellow, brown and orange Jumping into the huge crisp pile, I tossed them all about As my father raked them on top of me I would creep out
loner in the desert incapable of enjoying the stars knight of no man’s land cannot stand on his own desperate for a touch ‘pathetic’, they shout and wonder how he lost his mind love only made him weaker as life
I watch storm clouds drag themselves over broken city skylines. Listen to their thundering hearts, beat the promise of the malign. The frigid touch of rain, falling from a million hollow eyes. I wait and wish for my demise. In
After the weep there was blankness, then he started playing with fire for existence, of a rain which refused to shower. It was a fierce night of a hidden drought. A lethal dose of amnesia dissipates the calmness of a