photo from pixabay
Illusion and death
He is a red flower in the white vase On the window sill, Seeing himself all the time; Seeing his own petals crawling with bugs And falling… He is a red flower in a white vase On the window sill, Seeing himself all the time, But not seeing himself clearly. Sometimes there is rain, And he believes his face is getting distorted, Sometimes the sun devours his reflection And he believes he’s going invisible… He sees himself, But not always clearly; Sometimes there is a bug on the pane, Or some kind of dirt. Sometimes people look in, Sometimes there is a crack, Or a glittering scratch From the leafless branch That gently rubs To show romance. One day someone will shut the window drapes, And he’ll believe himself dead While he is still alive… Head full of branches I have a head full of branches Shedding their leaves, Lying bare like a crack in the sunrise… I have a head full of branches Quiet with raven in the day, Noisy with bats by night, Encircling and bumping into each other As the sky roars in blue light; A light that smells of smoke And electrocuted flesh… Lying in the twigs, Moving in a puddle of worms All sliding over each other Like one body; Like one resurrected mummy Trying to break out of its bandages… I have a head full of branches Shedding their leaves, Lying bare like a crack in the sunrise… A rise and the world Dew on the belly button of an apple, The cackling birds, The whiff of worms and fresh grass; The sun rises to see a sparkling world… A world of crackers, Glaciers, and a glass of yellow wine Left at the table With no lip imprinting its mouth, Listening to the violins, The customers And the rain… Forever lost in noise, Forever hidden in noise, Forever hidden away… Only to be discovered that night By a waiter Who pours it to the sink; Still… No lip imprinted. Dew on the belly button of an apple, The cackling birds, The whiff of worms and fresh grass; The sun rises to see a sparkling world Not realizing it is because of him… Bio: Abel Johnson Thundil is a young poet from India. He is the author of two anthologies of poetry. His poems are sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark; but always with a madness that’s very enjoyable. His works have appeared in Terror House Magazine, The Pangolin Review and Luminescence (Rosewood publications, India). His latest anthology, ‘Wilted: poems of modern tragedy’ is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.in/Wilted-Tragedy-Abel-Johnson-Thundil-ebook/dp/B0BG95TGHP/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=H0CIVL4UV8D3&keywords=wilted%3B+poems+of+modern+tragedy&qid=1666888623&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIwLjcxIiwicXNhIjoiMC4wMCIsInFzcCI6IjAuMDAifQ%3D%3D&s=digital-text&sprefix=wilted+poems+of+modern+tragedy%2Caps%2C277&sr=1-1
Fevers of the Mind 
Reblogged this on The Wombwell Rainbow.
LikeLike