The itching eye was but
just an excuse of sorts.
All I wanted
was to be out of bed,
mocking Mr. Insomnia.
Draped in streaks
of rays and greys
a queer thought hit me.
And gave me the creeps
Of the man in that mirror.
How’s he always around
whenever I seek him?
Doesn’t he take a mid-day break?
Crave for a 2 PM coffee,
or a 9 PM whisky?
Never have I knocked his window,
and found him missing.
I mean -
he could’ve been in the shower,
or just hanging out
with a bunch of friends,
and missed reporting back?
Or maybe he overslept,
and missed his alarm clock?
is he an insomniac too?
If so, what does he think
in those dark moments
fiddling with the night lamps
and cursing the air conditioner?
Does he think of lost paths?
Of people gone, and chances missed?
Does he fret on death,
or the lonely country to live in,
right after death?
Does he feel a hollow guilt
like imposters often do?
We stood facing each other.
The hour passed like a moment
of hurried grief.
He didn’t speak to me,
yet I heard him somehow.
He is my Siamese soul,
trapped in a glass prison
for this lifetime.
He is the ‘me’ in me,
who stays back home
while I go out and screw up.
He is the purity I let go,
as I don my cape.
I smile at him. He smiles back.
We strike a silent deal.
We will trade places next time.
Poor guy. He must be cramped,
standing there, all these years!
Outside, the night is bowing out.
I reach for the toothbrush.
And the mask.
The dawn yawns at me. I yawn back.
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Comments about this poem (Stranger by Ayon Banerjee )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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