Loneliness

Tears - watery, saltless, plasmatic
expanded on the rocky terrain
of her weather-beaten face,
like a dam undammed -
in a vast desertic plain.

With her dripping questioning eyes -
Chocolate brown?
(What color is a question?),
and a lone long (strangely long)
trapezoid incisor,
she sat bent, waiting.
Waiting?
What Had she, but loneliness, to wait on for?
(She was old, oh so old,
and alone -
her lone crooked tooth (strangely long)
- part white
quarter yellow
half, question-colored -
punctuated her shriveled features
like an omniscient exclamation mark!)

The Reports spoke, neutrally
of a well-acquainted friend -
Adenocarcinoma uterus,
and requested (even more tepidly)
to evaluate for Anesthesia.

Why, though, did she weep?
What More, at over 3 quarters of a century,
did she long yet to see?
In the dirt-laden poverty of her charity tatters,
what life still, did she yearn for?
What disquieting question did her question-colored eyes,
so questioningly pose?
"Will I live?"
or
"Will I die?"
And which way did they bend, her tired tried hopes?

(My tired tried mind digresses,
its shifting gaze wavers as it settles
like a fluttering moth on a new subject -
Me.
Would you, Madeeha, alone
- at 25 or 75 -
Ever want to live on More?)

Nov 17th, '08.

Today was my first day of house job.

Moonlit Night

An egg-yolk moon, unsettling gold
Rides a purple mist-laden sky,
Where listlessly they swirl:

Some ugly memories,
Some forgone dreams,
Some un-kept promises -

Packaged once,
with 'fragile' labels
And wantonly left -
Out -
In tepid monsoon rain.

The pale, stale, cold gold light
Of tonight's full, oft-hiding moon
Sweats out in silvery pearls
Crawling in fuzzy milky trails,
Firefly milestones blinking
Like Gretel’s innocent bread-crumbs
On endless violet darkness.

Fuzzy? Yes, those memories.
Blinking? Yes, the dreams.
Innocence? Yes, ah once!


Darkness?
3 drops of ink on blotting paper -
Pervading.


Nov 13th and 15th, ’08.

Death

Part 1 - Tête-à-tête with Death

[First encounter: Jan 28th and Feb 2nd, 2006.]

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

With detached, disbelieving, simmering terror,
I saw them removing.
The tubings
of a mechanical, alien ventilator -
a declaration of Death.

Like an uneducated audience
watching disinterestedly
a morbid Shakespearean tragedy -
I stood
scarce comprehending,
scarce registering,
scarce believing,
the Horror that leaned over -
covertly eyeing,
calmly waiting,
for me to acknowledge
his outstretched hand.

In the nearby flashing of a lightning
In the unexpected arrival of a beloved
In the distant tolling of sudden bells
He would visit me,
in days to come -
Lava
pouring out in gales,
from my stony eyes.

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

I would watch Him,
the simmering terror -
erupting Vesuvius
ashening over,
my entire world
smoggy, sooty
- utterly blind.

Oftimes,
in extremis,
I would scuttle blindly
in the abyss where I live
searching for cover…
in vain,
fraught with unassailable fear.
Always,
a Shadow,
I could barely discern,
walked shoulder to shoulder
in abysmal dark…
whispering,
blood curdling insinuations.

Ah, them…
True, I could not save!
But…
Had I to watch Him? –
Death,
squeezing out their souls
from withered bodies,
like lemon juice
for fresh lemonade…

And me, to then -
Not Die!
Had I to live?
So He could visit…

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

Nov 5th, 2008.


Part 2 - Death Be Not Proud


[Second encounter: Nov 10th, 2008.]

In seven hushed whispers,
far-off, we spoke.
Yet He!
He heard us
as he sat
covertly,
His hands
one on each tubing.

Watching, I waited:
For Him to finally -
claim,
For us to finally -
give up.
The tussle long,
long,
futile.

Her sedated intubated face,
flashes,
recurrently,
in the shadow of my eyes
as they roam across -
the neatness -
of my bachelor cubicle.
Yes, her glowing face.
The skin on her fingers
her swollen feet
stretched taut
splitting
like glossy cowhide.

-----------

I am ready.
Tonight, I am -
for that handshake,
that fated acknowledgement.
Tonight I shall clasp,
tremulously,
with my clammy hands,
both His steady ones.

I might dare too,
perchance,
to upturn my stained face
and peer
deep
into those abysses
- His eyes.

Tonight,
I will cry my heart out.

Nov. 10th, '08.


(Were a keen artist
A portrait
to paint -
He'd paint Him
powdery grey.
And me?
He'd think hard
in vain.
He'd wonder long
oh how -
To paint a standing shadow!
What shades of "void" to use?
To color -
stark emptiness.)

Face to face
wizened, stood -
Together
I and Death.

Nov 11th, '08.



Part 3 - The Dying, Dozens, Die.

The dying, dozens, die

Pain - like molten lava -
pours onto my heart,
my contorted chest,
my chained insides.
Faces - multitudes with death -
lurking in their utter pallor
in their slippery sallowness
in buttercup yellow of their eyes
in putrid froth at their mouths
in mugfuls blood bubbling out
in gurgling silence
in pulselessness
in a straight line.

The living, I, live

Knowing - like an iron anchor -
sinks into my being,
the sea of my soul,
the ocean of my existence.
The little harrowed child
hides in corners, within me
fraught with the consuming fear
of discovery, exposure.
I laugh to keep from weeping.
I talk to keep from screaming.
I walk, bustle around, look busy
lest I should see where I am
lost in a haunted wood
Gretel, afraid of the night.

Nov 23rd, '08.