Jyothy Sreedhar


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,



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


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…