Being Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

I was sleeping inside
An alley with hundred doors
And the beat of steps led me
To the sullen light of a mourning

Like the stately giraffe
Upright in patched colours
Or the zebra in its bloated nose
Sniffing and snorting around
The briar of existence

A pallid gloom snapped its ties
Forever, and dark spells be sought
The meaning of the less known
Derelict, inanimate

Life, or some other acuity
Peeping from the clouds
Stopped me for a moment
Of uncertain wandering, wherever