Poetry: Irene Emanuel

AUTOPSY

It is a profound sadness;
A devastation of familiar behaviours;
subtle erosion of thought patterns,
loss of control, no governance.
A destruction of the fragile hold on reason.
A creeping course of shattered beliefs--
A corrosive calamity crushing the calm;
worming wearily within webs of worthlessness.
When the foundations crumble,
when previous perceptions pander to panic,
when fundamental feelings malfunction,
when the norm becomes forlorn amidst a burning pain,
he places the gun to his temple---
he pulls the trigger.
Forensics will never know why.

CORRIDOORS

Old mould assails sensitive nostrils as I step into the world of euphemistically-named
"retirement homes", inhabited by decrepit furnishings and ghosts of better days.
Sad doors down dim-dull corridors of lost years, opening into faded-away rooms, grimly
holding onto diminishing occupants. Sorrowful sadness sighs its connection to past
glories when they meant something to people who cared. Shadow spectres haunt
meandering minds with taunting tears of "Those were the days."
The corridors stretch into eternity, beckoning used-up bodies to shelter in their cob-web
caves of decomposing memories. I see the doors and run for my life.

Setu, February 2018