As i walked inside my house,
to the creamy walls and dusty furniture I see
every day. though I think they are more bored
of seeing me than I am.
I grabbed a chair and placed it in
the centre of the barren, muddy space,
which was supposed to be a garden.
I sat down with the old teacup in my hand
the one that I bought from the old
Abu market years ago, somehow
in all these years it has survived.
and while I sip the hot, burning tea,
I close my eyes and let the warm
dopey air wash over my face,
the evening hasn't felt fresh for
decades now. for several years now
haven't I known what freshness means ,
what life looks like. another tedious day
at work, coming back home to the
old depressed walls of my house
perhaps even they don't wait for me anymore,
and with another sip, as I open my eyes
they fall on a leaf shaking almost on
the verge of death, I wonder is the leaf
as much dry as my palms?
for they haven't felt the warmth
of another, they haven't sweated
from the prolonged holding on
to another palm.
is it really so decedent everywhere or
my senses have abandoned me?
for my eyes have seen just decimation
for a very long time, whenever I lift
my gaze death is what it lands upon.
like the dried leaf which just withered
a while ago, did it fall because
I stared at it? do I carry death in my eyes?
and most of what my tongue has tasted
is salty, the air around me has perhaps
turned brackish and I don't even live
by the ocean and salt that I have taste
resides on my ageing skin, and on
my pillow that supports the load
of my brimming brain.
touch is another sense
that I have forgotten. for air and material
is what I have touched all this while.
and my ears have by now done
the sonography of emptiness,
within and around me, they have heard
more vacuum than the astronauts,
my ears have now become accustomed to
the unnerving sound of silence and death
is what I hear. and now while I sit here,
sipping the remaining of the tea,
all I do is wait for the spring.
© 2020-21 Muskan Sharma | All rights reserved.
day 2 of NaPoWriMo ( prompt “sonography of emptiness” by PoemsIndia