LUNATIC DIARIES OF …

I

In these confines, the smell of insomnia is strong,

The unshaven walls sport an incongruous expression;

Even the doors and windows have their eyebrows stitched…

The furniture grunts relentlessly.

II

….and then when home seems alien,

The eyes zoom into a pallete of green.

No thirst for the throat,

No inquisitive voice –

The hand involuntarily soars into the blue.

I have mastered the language of the birds,

And man’s gestures and words seem illegible.

The lizard’s glare, the movement of the red ant,

The whiff in the air, are no mystery to me;

At midnight as the aged owl looks on,

The devil’s disciple gets in the ring….

III

Eyes fill up with anxiety as I am spotted.

In closed rooms, solitude or aimless loiter

Is all they have rationed for this even lesser mortal.

Chains have been spared out of pity;

I am deserted – an untouchable amidst

Father’s apprehension and mother’s silence.

Somnambulation is not a peaceful experience.

IV

Like an illegitimate offspring,

Here lie my words –

On the bed – below the table – unruffled…

Time has clawed his nails into it.

An unknown beast devours it, before my helpless eyes.

But I can still hear it weep –

And then – the huen cry – a beheaded spirit –

-- the stench of the morgue –

And this nightmare remains my solitary guardian angel.