Dear Death, Come To Me

By Yash Abhrankash Panda

i've lost the track of time but i guess it's the eighteenth hour.

one severed wrist, fractured, swollen ankles, a fatigued heart,

another limb cut deep to rather show the ulna off

and torso barely bearing any skin; death hasn't blessed me so far.

i tried to pull a knife. futile's my arm to stab at my throat.

with a nose, crushed and jaw collapsed, i struggle to snort

any air in. so all i've got to breathe through is a gaping cheek

which hurts more because of the cheek bone which broke

when he sliced it with an axe and my agony delicately flew in red.

my face is quite itchy of the swarms of ants devouring my flesh

and blood that i smear over again as i manage to swipe ants off.

it's hot in here. could someone please take my shirt and pants off?

my finest ideas come from bloodshed, terror and blind slaughter.

kind murders find colours lying behind the laughing mirrors.

dear death, come to me before my father finds me lying.

dear death, come to me before i hear my mother crying.

By Yash Abhrankash Panda