A thick new coat of paint
on these walls
takes away thoughts of the scourge,
a three storey apartment
dangles like a swing
between earth and sky
and a severe vertigo hits our heads in freefall
as we get up from our beds,
the room revolving all around us
like the solar system might,
on the command of a surreal axis;
all of it from just the medications and paranoia,
also the news updates by the millisecond.
I observe more,
my eyes binoculars now.
on a full moon night,
I think I saw Grim Reaper
all dressed up,
for his execution of salvation,
as doorbells rang
and Church bells tolled.
Aye, it was him alright,
only not in the form
I imagined him to be.
It was just him,
sprinkling grief like colours,
on the old uncle wearing black that day.
The poor man was mourning.
He is a widower now.
Does he know he is being watched by the bidding
hands of time ?
and his time of grief has now stretched till the midnight sky turns to poppy red,
at some ungainly hour when sleep wouldn’t
come with medication.
He has no one with him.
He is 75.
I am 25,
and the last supper I ate was with my own
with my prayers before my meal
and God on my sore lips.
I keep the balcony door open,
who knows when some God may come visiting
as a guest?
One of the invisible ones came to me in my sleep
“Your friend has been left scot free from the hospice
and is back home
but your vain and cursing cousins still struggle,
with not a single word of grace for you,
who you still prayed for”
You know this month is like an unmarked grave,
waiting to obscure the replica of life we have lead.
So if we get up from our beds,
see a new leaf in the room,
by the open door
in the mornings,
take it as life without premonition.
Take it as the strong instincts you share with your mother.
Take it as a form of God who has come to your aid.
Take it as the voice of the child playing with his own replica on the walls and yet happy.
At last, take it as a call for life.
A call for prayer.
A call for the fact that we breathe
even as the dust of our century mingles with the air.