Death comes and goes
Like yawns in the backbenches.
A fleeting sense of not being,
And then it’s you, again.
Talking, questioning, demanding answers.
A cursor stuck on a dusty computer screen.
Technical flaw. A new-age metaphor.
My life is like that then, jerking between icons,
Stumbling through an eternity till I am shut down.
And shut up, too.
And maybe then, annoyed, you’ll sell me.
You’ll dump me in an alley or into rough hands
That’ll take me apart and observe the pieces.
I am drops of sorrows. Of hopes rotten and rusty.
I’ll bid you my incoherent goodbye,
I’ll disintegrate and go back into the world.
But not as me, this time.
This time, death will come and stay for real.
And where this rusty life ends, new lives will begin.
About the poet:
Mouli Banerjee is currently pursuing her master’s degree in English Literature from St. Stephen’s College, New Delhi. Amateur poet and poetry enthusiast, Mouli loves travelling, singing, and writing fiction among others.