The Sentence/Turning to be Real

“Write me something happy.”

you say. Lately,

we have been measuring grief

in Richter scale.

I hold then pen. I still do.

Being an old-fashioned is in Vogue.

I see it turn into a feather first

and then into a twig lifted

in the air by a nesting bird.

I scriven, “Hope.” It Sems

like a long sentence.

Turning to be Real

The leaves fall in the prohibited zone.

Wind loiters there. Yet to be

that season when the breaths turn

into smoke signals, but I feel it.

Light sets an abandoned syringe on fire.

I must turn here and now,

albeit it might be too late.

I never comprehend why people

love flowers, those functional

instruments supporting life.

I must turn here and now.

The other side of the ground looks bright.

The turf of life, I thought real;

turns out to be plastic.

“Turn now.” I murmur. In the vortex of me

the message’s simplicity drowns.

I stare at the hospital. Morning drips

into its sack. The spilled yellow light

sketches a window on the cold floor.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor