Friday, 10 March 2017

The Corpse

Wrapped in cloth,
Unaware and taut,
The once person lies,
As a log seating flies,
Rigid and cold,
Expressionless and old,
Kidding life, soul, function,
Name, why, even pronoun,

It lies there, motionless and bound,
Awaiting decay or cremation,
Not responding, yes,
Its so called vitals a mess,
Some organs functioning,
While others not working,
And we dig them out,
With not slightest guilt,

What if the soul is still stuck in the body?
Unable to find another to embody?
What if the corpse responds not,
But still feels pain and things hot?
We discard them for their movement's stopped,
And our meters show numbers we know to count,

What if they need something we can give?
A little help of a special kind?
I know my path is headed that way,
And my feet tremble as time pushes me ahead,
I'm terrified to walk down that road,
But haven't there been billions who've gone before?

As a writer I've felt that there are fleeting moments when someone else writes through my pen. I cannot take credit for this poem. I'm forced to put my name down as the poet but I know for a fact that I've been merely a device for these words to flow through.

Written at 26.2.2017 at 3:37am on phone, when in bed at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.

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