Innominate

By Debasmita Shovakar

Oh, it’s one of those nights again

when it’s my turn to mourn.

My mind is searching for me in a virulent terrain

to find the missing piece of my soul so lorn.

It’s been bleeding for long.

I lost pieces of me for the apparition of a possible we.

Since then, I have learned to dance to any gloomy song

and reply with a somber “I’m fine” involuntarily.

I don’t recognize my parallel.

I see faces, not my own, before my eyes.

Some known, some drenched in abyssal agony, one can tell.

And somewhere among those faces, my impression lazily dies.

Adults weaved this beautiful painting of us evolving with each passing moment.

But they silenced the possibility of it the other way round, which leaves one with the illusion of their fleshy cage of bones gone vacant.

By Debasmita Shovakar