Short Peripheries Poems

Blinding inertia bleeds extruding from your peripheries. Inverse cognition conjuring 
within your grasp. To accommodate the psyche beyond id, clarity overtakes the 
divine misdirection....

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Fallaciously inverting genuinely involute demented eras, voraciously tearing away 
infinity. Absolute desolation befriends in an undermining attempt for desecrate 
dilution. No longer will life be derived of the dementia and so begins the new 
peripheries of bliss....

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Subliminal recession in a valid medium taunts your apathetic presence. Sin the 
alleviate disparity, cos a destined validity, tangent universal.  Overtaken by infinity, 
hovering unscathed of the insidious through a self deity. Collapsing perception 
rushing through these opaque peripheries....

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At peripheries of two world with make-up
An apathy of immoral greedy world
In mist vile and lies
Veiled this world
In cemetery  
In mourning days
Only phantoms world
At gates of west
Open to meet careless east
In sunset
 In ever dusk crows
All along in grief
 In graveyard
Millions of hope
Buried alive...

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He feigns the astute overture which solemnly reigns oppressing. His head clouded 
from mars to infinity, a perpetual black power convolutes through metaphysical 
peripheries. Infinite is the torture granted from this being. Interdimensional 
branding lays hollow in vein of mind control. Such is the vicariously voracious...

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Conceive in a moment of silence
You came to thought
To feed birds of desire in drought 
With hands; of bare 
Melted shields; of frosty ice 
With pair of wings
Played in air 
On peripheries 
Of pain
In rings and raise 
In a book of shallowness
Of my pale
And bore 
Added 
A blossom of rose
In gallery of rimes; old and cold 
Conjured you the paint 
An art 
A sense of love
With semaphore of heart 
Make the scene alive
Again...

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Those things now lost or never owned
Like memories of wings or our water’s sleep
Linger unobserved in peripheries of light;
Flitting like moths between vacant moments.
Till we half remember a smothered dream
Of oceans and broad blown beaches;
The sprawl of endless nothings
Which hint of landscapes without edge
And buildings without design.
It’s here that we seem to exist, and with pebbles
That we build through time for form
And spin both labyrinth and twine....

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An outcast, stripped and beaten
up, the sickle moon
smears the clouds with blood.

I hate to wait for –
the sun to undo this mess,
an ethnic mutilation will bring a chaos.

Nursing the peripheries,
tribes were in pursuit of bayonets;
will not surrender the arms

to mate.Unceasingly they are
digging up an abysmal grave
to throw in the truths in uniform-

in pursuit of feathers, offering
for temple archways, turning
on the future, for past glory !



SATISH VERMA...

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