Pity grips me now as those dire moments dreaded,
Come to life, him-dreading-self goes to death.
A question lingers as he lies on that bed,
‘How does it feel living, with each laboured breath
Seeming like the last? But as soldiers march by
With dimples sitting on their bruised faces; maybe I
Myself shouldn't be glad in life's tingling shirt,
Wondering what page I'm on, in this burning booklet.
Maybe this dieing man should really be happier,
Persistent shrieks, noise, cries- soon he'll no more hear.
Maybe that pitiful look should be on his face
As he looks at the tangled webs of this geoid space.
And maybe we've been wrong all this while, in the mist,
Maybe death doesn't come with a clenched fist
Irate, prepared to punch; prepared for a bash.
Maybe it only comes to pull the sword out of the flesh,
The tortured flesh, so that saying yes,
With full authority, the soothing sun appears
On that naked blood's craving,
That long desire of clotting.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012