Poetry
The Dying Flame
Waiting for you to die.
Here we go again
Let’s do this dance
Where we sit you up
Dress you up
And stuff some mush
Into your corpse-like body
Because you want it
You say
Or we think you say
Or we hope
We need you to say
Your skin is paper thin
Your breath as soft as the wisps of grey
That many would have
But not you
Thick black and shiny
It always was, your hair
Your pride and joy
Well not quite
That was your wife
Your family
That house
That blessed you by chance they say
But we know that luck is created
That you created it
Your voice is a groan
Dead before it has begun
Your smile has evaporated
Replaced by a bottomless pit
Like the mouth of a volcano
All you have left now is your right arm
And the minuscule movements of your head
And somehow still you manage to command attention
Make decisions
And tell us what you like
You strike me as someone who always went for what you wanted
No matter how inconvenient it was for others
Perhaps something to learn from
A tinge of a guilt that perhaps keeping you alive all these years was a mistake
That we played God too liberally
Your deathbed is so prolonged
Stretched out like the Mahaveli
So very long
Never-ending
A sputter as we stuff some fruit laced with whisky into your mouth
At least he is eating
It is good he is drinking
We say
You coughing
Although you can’t really
Trying to get out everything that has gone the wrong way
I don’t understand it
But it seems to be a dance we must all take part in
Although who choreographed it
And who is watching
I do not know
