Real And False

By Yukti Bhatnagar

On the precipice of conscious and not,

I find myself fighting on the dubious field

of real and false;

where on the side, I am aware

of the dance my irises

perform under my closed eyes

yet on the other,

I battle my way

through an infinite minefield of webs.

As still as my body may lie

on the feather soft mattress,

on that side of make-believe,

I thrash and convulse

with my personal demons and angels.

And even though my screams and roars

tear through the canals of all,

spewing blood and matter

over my fallacious land;

not even a measly whimper

make its way out of my throat.

My bones, chilled and shivering

under my weighted blanket

while my skin cries liquid salt

of hot and cold sweat

but in my beloved nightmare,

my pores weep grime of the dead.

A warrior, I may be in routine,

locking horns with the threads of verity

yet in this conjured land of mine,

a simple touch of the reaper

or a mere wisp of sickly air

is enough to strip away

the titles, I adorn, of muscles and nerves

and leave me a hollow mess

of broken bones and cracks.

By Yukti Bhatnagar