Tethered
This room transfigures into the teapot my cursed soul lying liquidated in, a cavernous volume partially lit by tubular hope of anticipated outside view,
my pencil sketches bantering with angles of sunrays on window sill since dawn to twilight, reflecting on deceased relations, sizzle of dishevelled medical records, webinars notes and workshops online,
room seems to be aquarelle’s multi-welled palette with me, a lonely granulated pigment, dusty and parched, sunk in one depression,
tearsome agitation staining endless leisure with monochromes, yesterday a trapezium in constellation, today evoking a stale prismatic desperation,
space alights on a branch of Illusion pretending to be magnifying lens concentrating light, I being that converged beam inflammable enough for self-immolation, to be smelled by no human olfactory sense as surely confined in an awful forest ravine,
the room alters to a biological cell with organelles, me the vacuole, where unwanted or use later stuff is stored, for the moment and for millions of moments to come,
I am ravaged by bovine feelings tethered under a shed with discolored fences brandishing sharp edges of embedded broken glass pieces, finding it difficult to ruminate nonchalantly with a light heart.
In response to the Wednesday prompt “the rooms have us” in Scrittura by J.D. Harms.
Era Garg May 2021
