Tinker Bell

By Rabina Mitra

These days are dark to the core,

The lights have moved further,

We still cling to the white haze.

Still, the tiniest light of hope flickers, like the slightly stirring wings of a dying moth.

Death nestled in our breath,

We live like imposters in our own bodies!

Bridges burn down,

Time is now bereft of all meanings.

We are steadily losing grounds.

The air around has a steely taste about it,

Sharp blades against our neck,

We stare into slow moving time,

Grow sick to the bones.

The sordid cells erupt inside our brains.

Venom vacates us of every tiny morsel of exaltation!

These are dark times.

Hope is now a weakling, a pauper on the streets.

A scavenger.

A fairy without magic.

Her light blinks low.

A dying Tinker Bell!

Should we warm her up?

Should we believe in mirth?

Should we seek sunshine?

Can't we bring her home,

to warm soups and blankets?

By Rabina Mitra