The Murder Of Jim Bartleby Poem by Navarun Mallick

A very nasty old man was Jim Bartleby,
Living in his run down shack.
With the blood in his veins sucked dry,
He was always dressed in black.

Most unpleasant a person was he,
Bearing trespassers with a stick.
Once he was on a spree,
And the mayor of the town did he kick.

Most impolite was he to all townsfolk,
In his house for guests was there no good or drink,
With his stinging insults did he provoke,
The people, and his status began to shrink.

The people were fed up of dear old Jim,
Perhaps they would be better off of he were dead!
So they said to each other, "Let us kill him,
And then we shall feast on meat and mead! "

"But who is to kill him? ", I dared ask,
To which no one had a a reply.
And as the people began to hide behind their meek masks,
From old Jim's shack, we hear a cry.

All of us ran to the run down shack,
And we nearly tore off the door.
With his cane lying cracked,
Jim Bartleby was on the floor.

With great agony he beckoned me,
Even as the others called the hospital lorry.
His final word, as he gave me a key,
Was almost inaudible, but was 'Sorry'.

Long after this, as I sat in reflection,
I wondered, why did Jim apologise?
Was the key just part of a fiction,
Or did it lead to a greater prize?

The key belonged to a casket of his,
In which a letter was addressed to me.
Written a day before death's kiss,
They spoke of his secret grief.

For this is what the letter said:
"Life, for me, is now meaningless.
The only thing I do is to earn my bread,
Waiting for God's sweet caress.

"Alas! Cruel fate, and cruel Him!
They snatched from me all I held dear!
My cup of bitterness was full to the brim,
Now others' happiness did I morbidly fear.

"So I arrived to make others unhappy,
And for a long time, I did do so.
For the only time I was pervertedly happy,
Was when others suffered for no fault, just like I had also.

"I know that I have rocked the waters far too long,
I know that I shall descend to hell too.
I know that you want to sing happiness' song,
And that is why I will be killed by you."

Jim Bartleby once cut off my thumb,
In return, I decided to carve out his heart.
And unwittingly, from the world which made him numb,
Did I help Jim to depart.

For yes; it was I who killed old Jim,
I smote his life out with his cane.
For hours did his scream struggle in him,
But when it came, it was too late.

Now I see how unknown Jim was,
Even as he sunk in his emotions.
For he became a man replete with flaws,
Even as they consumed his good portions.

Depression is not a terrible consequence,
It is rather like an insidious crack.
It leaves your life in senescence,
It leaves you hollow like Jim's empty shack.

It took over Jim; now it hungers for me,
But I am a steely hearted fellow.
I won't get to sing happiness' song,
But neither will I wallow in sorrow.

So I shall set off on a long journey,
Wearing a necklace of rope.
The demons that force me to be lonely,
Shall bother me no more.

For I shall have the company of Jim,
And that's bound to lift my spirits.
So as I leave this place full of sham,
I shall say-Jim Bartleby was a nasty old man