J for Jaded World—a poem
Now all the casements and egresses
are closed, and we are trapped in the stinking room
eternally waiting for a dollop of fresh air,
on a spot of melting sun; a dead fly rests on the window sill,
its corpse-eyes glued to the closed exterior,
it’s head resting on the un- sunny mat of dust.
All around me life balks, stops short and waits for an end.
The clammy cells of our bodies refuse to profuse anymore,
they die in hoards, drowned in the acid of blind ignavia.
And then there is the heated up, hollow disposition
of a surfeited, exiguous physical life too.
This season’s white-washed wall is fading away,
it seems as cold as a corpse with protruding cheek-bones—
A bunch of yester-season’s flowers and crows
form the jaded company that pulls its shroud off
with unheard cries of alarm and hatred,
and all the while, the un-jocund earth lies still,
in the coarse-pink satin layered box of eternal torpor.