The Last Day-- ACROSTIC

 Time ticked like every day

Heedlessly I went about my way

Ensnared by time.

Lurking somewhere,

Anonymous,

Stealthily you approached,

Terminating me.

Death, you are merciless.

Abruptly, you claimed me,

Yanking me—as if I were nothing.

Experimenting with Blackout poetry

 Ref:

 last Queen last paragraph  page 35

Weeks crawl along.

Hurried, tight-lipped,

he leaves at dawn,

returns after sundown.

Our simple meal

takes an hour.

The rest of the day

stretches—

endless.

A dingy mud hut

needs little care.

The narrow window

lets in

no sunlight.

Like a drowning person,

I grapple with time-

Hoping -

yet unwanting

the night 

to bring him back.

A Life in Three Movements

 

I. What Remains

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Rotten memories, perhaps,

of bygone days.

Where are those days

of my younger self?

My torrid affair,

my haughty being?

I was a beauty once, you know—

no one could ignore me.

My tongue was sharp,

my temper short.

I could dance, sing,

control it all.

Today—

I am not even a reflection

of that self.

My memory is locked.

I keep forgetting.

II. The Day I Walked Out

That day came.

I took the plunge

and walked out of my door,

never to return.

I wanted my life back.

To be able to

freely board the bus,

go shopping,

visit neighbours,

and do whatever

I wanted.

I had forgotten it was Sunday.

I just wanted to go out.

In a hurry,

I took my bag

and my bank papers.

I even forgot

my favourite—

my phone.

Listlessly,

I continued to walk,

traversing

the tricky pavement

and the shuttered shops

till I reached the crossing.

Something had shifted.

The careful me was gone.

The light was red.

They say

someone called out,

tried to stop me,

the police waved frantically.

I don’t remember.

Only a sound.

a car,

too fast,

too close,

and then-

air,

impact,

the hard edge of the curb.

When I woke,

I was in a hospital bed.

Outside,

the world continued—

I never stepped back into it.

III.  Something is  Missing 

My head—

God knows what it holds.

Something is always missing.

Faces slip away.

Names don’t stay.

I was a beauty once…

wasn’t I?

With blank stares,

I sit all day,

looking at walls.

I have stories

I cannot tell.

No one calls—

not even

to say “hi.”

I wait

with cloudy eyes.

No one knows

what goes on in my mind.

I have lost control

of my being.

Eat, sleep, TV.

TV, eat, sleep.

That’s what my life

has  turned out to be.

Reduced to Nothing.

Mask

 Mask

Human face.

No eyes.

No ears.

No nose.

No mouth to speak.

Just a mask

in a gallery.

Holes

where something should have been.

Who will wear it?

Will you give it

your eyes—

your ears—

your breath?

Will you lend it

a voice?

If it is yours,

you will feel it—

a pulse

rising in the chest,

something pressing

toward speech.

The mouth waits.

The nose trembles.

The ears open.

The eyes begin to shine.

Or else—

it remains

what it was:

a mask

in a gallery.

Unbecoming

 23.03.2026

The unborn child,

conceived with love,

kept from becoming.

A decision.

Practicality.

You return

in dreams—

a tiny head,

glistening with amniotic fluid,

cradled within the womb,

whispers—

“Why did you knock me out?”

I wish I had

let those tiny hands

curl around my finger.

But—

I was not the mother then.

I was a woman

trying to create my life,

to fulfil my dreams.

You would have altered everything.

Today—

no guilt.

Only tenderness

fills.

You remain.

Still, 

I wonder—

is it sorrow

or something stronger

that asks again—

“Why?”

Grave stories

 Cemeteries abound in memories.

Dust to dust, bodies vanish.

Headstones inscribed with love

Keep the dead alive—

In names and dates,

In loving memory.

Cemeteries abound in stories,

Stories of the dead—once alive.

Stories of love, sickness, or crime.

Headstones tell different tales:

Some of love,

Some with just names,

Or marked by a single cross.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Rich, engraved marble mausoleums

Hold histories long gone.

Dates speak of lives cut short

Or lived too long.

Cemeteries abound in stories.

Some tombstones, sparkling clean,

Others lost under overgrown grass,

Speak of love—and its absence.

Flowers on some tell of visits,

by loved ones

Others lie forgotten, covered in dust.

Even in death,

Our stories endure.

My grave lies empty,

Waiting to tell my story.

Half a Life

 17.03.2026

I am half alive

Because I have yet to find

Who I am.

I am half alive,

Unaware of

My true calling.

I am half alive

Because I cannot speak

All that fills my mind.

I am half alive

Torn between

Myself and my family.

I am half alive,

Searching for

The treasures within me.

I am half alive—

Yet I know,

One day I shall find

What is truly mine.