Jyothy Sreedhar


Priorities break away.

The option remains.

In the verge of decay,

panegyrics parellel reality.

Skeletons wander

in search of spines.

At the stroke of midnight

I forfeit to the yells of wisdom

then, forcible thoughts

to summarise my ‘self’.

The verdict for perdition hangs

across the arteries.

Alas! I wander in the mirage

of a utopian desert,

with no hunger

with no thirst

but desire for the fire.

To the savior, I graph

the hundred routes of tears.

Hold it in palm, for a light unseen,

packed with those rarities of smiles.

And I tear away the decorated armour.

pummel the skinny sceptre,

punch the sprout of wishes

getting ready to end up.

My virgin dirge then echoes in air

(I had been writing it since my birth):

“Repent…You must repent

Or you shall be born again

Repent…You must repent

Or you shall not end up.

In the fury of ashy smoke

Ere your red flesh bursts

Repent…You must repent

Repent…atleast… repent.”

Theatre dismissed.

The stage perishes.

And the epitaph:

“The rhetoric snores”.

Full stop.