Blood soaked ribs, smoked to death,
draped over with velvety violet,
over the mahogany dripping table.
The sunlight prays to mate with this smell,

Come, child, tell me
When was the last time
you smelled light and travelled through time?

When was the last time
you tasted an abyss and it was sweeter than
the wind that flows in a thousand valleys
all drenched in rain.

The laundry box looks like it has been shot
twice, a fucking mess, its internals,
your second skin is all over the floor.

But you pick up the whitest white and head
to the room with no sunlight, no smell,
no eyes.

Why?

© Shashank Bhardwaj