my existence floats
in a boat made up of dreams
over the turbulent seas of death.
the illusion of a charade.
the night’s scythe
cleaves my head:
blood with a famine of words
splatter all over the dusty bed-sheets.
The crucifixion of lies.
the boat trembles, seas rage.
With bleeding toes, my existence
inches towards the edges of insanity
laughing like a suicidal dog with
a growing distaste for chewed bones.
The Paradox of suffering.
I wait for an unheard laughter,
for the air to caress the wind chimes again.
It will all be over soon.
More the blood loss, deeper the ink to write with.
Don’t you think?
© Shashank Bhardwaj