My shadow departs.
I forbear.
To all my questions
She smirked.
The pages keep turning
in my emotional diaries,
showing off what I often imagined,
exaggerated,
murdered
and then made to a phoenix.
I soothe myself in the strangling loneliness.
The deceased year lays in front.
The corpse is safe with December.
I peep into the opening door.
And I see the mere corpse
And my departed shadow.
What next?,
when the frozen December solidifies.
I dont have a new year awaited,
but just the ‘rest’ of life.
I kill my smiles,
I kill my soul,
I kill whatever was mine…
I kill my self…myself…
And then
freely,
I dream of
an urn with my smile drawn.
Literature writes my epitaph.
The weird Webster cries:
“Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.”
An eerie note of reply:
“I am Duchess of Malfi still.”
December fades away…
And a new year never comes…