Rendezvous with Death

“Time’s up!”

Yama roared in his usual baritone

With a partially wilted, perishing frame and wizened soul

Succumbing to the eternal sleep, the eternal silence was so facile

Malady, Melancholy, Patriarchy– paved the way for despair

All I saw were barren lands

All I heard were shrieks of insanity

But, dying is not an art, is it?

O Apollo,

Kiss and lubricate my parched lips

For me to blossom once again in my erstwhile glory

For me to tell the world–

“Yes, I have floated on the iceberg of Death, but my grit was too firm for it to melt.”

Staffy Bhateja