Sophisticated Dead Man Poem by Saurabhmoy Lahiri

Livid handwriting
With screaming stains-
found a tattered diary in a dry old well.
'Arpan Patra-
Dream of great days'
was written on the first page.

Wandering in the desert at pitch dark
Gasping for breath, sands filling my nose and throat and mouth and my eyes
Unable to breath without inhaling the sand
Coughing and choking.
Visibility-zero; So lost.

I closed the diary.
My hands and forehead sweaty.
I don't know what happened.
Was it real? What just happened?
It's something I cannot explain.

How oppugnant is the heading- 'Dream of great days'?
Tricks these dead men play
Wicked games for the living flawed.
I threw the diary back into the well and
prayed to god.

And walked away. Far away.