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By Saptarshi Debnath

I look

At the dying city

Seeped in decadence-

Through my neon-tinted glasses,

Which paints the truth

Like a Surrealist fever dream.

Fumes of the city

Closing in

On my senses,

Waiting for me

To give up

Or to give in.

I observe the people,

Like the idle onlooker,

Who watched Mt Vesuvius

Slowly crawl

And engulf Pompeii;

Like the seamstress

Whose job was to count

The number of heads rolled

In a Tale of Two Cities-

Like perhaps

The algorithm and the coders,

Who diligently map

The graphical progression

Of a natural calamity–

Sometimes amazed

At my own passivity.

I speak as if I am immune,

To the carnival of carnage

That rips before me

The threads of reality,

Painting a macabre picture,

Clearer than the latest James Webb projection.

But the truth is,I chastise,

Only to give in

To the delusional frenzy

The fantasy of normalcy,

As are all of us

Who dance to the end of life

Prone to do.

We trade truth for sense,

Hoping for the ordeal to end,

Only to realize,

It was us who started it

In the first place.

I look at my self,

Plunging headlong

Towards the city lights ,

Ditching the neon shades

To put on an act,

Or life,I suppose?

By Saptarshi Debnath

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