Afternoon At The Attic Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

I'm like the afternoon in the attic
Locking horns with nothing important
And the ruse from the cold salad keeps me alive
From the devils underneath the floor

On all fours, if I could lie, with the eyes leaping
To reach, but the roof comes in the way,
The windows, sinking to the lows
Of whatever that remains inside my freedom

As if nothing matters, the outside, or the inside
For a moment, inevitable, I lie,
A creature morphed and balmed
Like the pharaoh at the Rhodes

The cat passed me, almost winking
At my history, with no past to live for
Or No future to die in
Almost a sobering review

Of the outside, like the whims
of a lost afternoon, softly leaving
Me alone, to the devils
Underneath the floor