I witness stillness - the unbearable part 

of existence.

The emptiness is a continent shifting 

into my chest. 

Moths flutter on monsoon nights.

The grimy electric street lamps spitting

yellow with a gentle flicker. 

The pale dying evening light

beckons me-

And says 'pour'. 

Pour your mind onto the paper.

What do I write when everything I think of is 

a replica of a dismantled human dream? 

I pray to the good God and try to

wash the morbid vocabulary.

Tongue, brain and hands - cleansed 

with mirth. 

Cleaning the dripping ink, I try again/

The theory is raw again. 

Let me come back to it when I know the 

whereabouts of my own voice. 

For now, it is cautiously quiet inside.