The Watch

By Saptarshi Debnath

I look out of my window,

And watch the dead city

Dragging its carcass

Through a routine of monotony.

Yet,I know not what

The next moment

Holds in store for me.

Voices of friends,

Fading into the caustic vat

Of nonchalance.

Only the remarks float

Like ice cold daggers

Forcing their way open,

Leaving the wound gaping,

Waiting for it to fester;

But I don't care.

One look is all it's worth..

A million fragments of malice,

Form a conscious stream of anathema.

All that I get from it,

Is the fire to forge

My song:to indulge in,

To stave off the dance till death.

But like a million dreams,

This too shall fail,

I feel it creeping in my bones,

Each spectator leaving the seat,

While I perform in an empty hall.

But in the end it doesn't matter.

I drink in cups laced with poison,

The fluid burning my throat,

But yet,I ingest it,

In sheer desperation

Or out of habit,I guess?

My words,like the dead Crysthanthemum,

Which I forgot to water,

On my way out to vacation.

Once well meaning,but

Ultimately adding

To the disposal.

A memory,harder than the hardest diamond,

Cuts and bleeds..

But In the end,

It is a memory,

It can bleed,

But nothing more.

In the end,

It's power on me

Is as fleeting

As the raincloud

On an autumn morning.

And so,I look on.

By Saptarshi Debnath