People here have forgotten to die.
Their tiny village sleeps
through the meteor showers
and late night chemical slip,
blasts and those blisters
that appear to eat flesh.
They live through murders, rape.
People sleep. Wake. Rake their gardens,
and as prescribed by Zen,
they undo their heavy work.
I meet people all the time,
forget their names,
and they do not mind.
They live through my id.
.
Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor
What a haunting poem. This will stay with me for quite some time.
Comment by Cheryl Shepherd on 28 April, 2019 at 3:53 pmA fine poem.
Comment by Donna Snyder on 6 May, 2019 at 5:17 amExcellent poem
Comment by Pradnya on 15 May, 2019 at 11:04 amBrilliantly expressed
Comment by Amit Shankar Saha on 16 May, 2019 at 3:16 amvoracious with a hunger for expression that will satiate even the sleeping undead . . .
Comment by David Lewis on 20 May, 2019 at 12:42 pm