An Old Railway Line

In the death chamber confines
The soul of my mind
Handcuffed by tragedy
Sentenced to death penalty
Just close to a blink of my eyes
With an illusionary greetings
Of long life
Standing before me
Face to face – My death.

Startled I’m like the whirl
Of the breeze on cobwebs
Hanging in every corner
Of this death chamber
Not in use for centuries
I’d neither blink my eyes
Nor breathe my breath.

Asleep is the fireplace
With only ashes
Decomposed in wetted firewood
Neither the wisp of fire
Nor the glow of flame.

Rusty hinges on the door
Perforated by rust
Through which holes
Smirks the gloomy bored moon
Seeking shelter for a night
A moment of unpleasant and discontent
Moans like a wild beast.

Severe wounds
In inner minds
Groan like a cry of spasm
By unwilling sexual desire
Seduced by the enemy
In the defeated war.
Echoed from the walls around
Fearing to have an ear
Shrink in the emptiness of the room.

At any time, the electric shocks
Set the body to ashes.
Only a fistful of my breath
Remaining in my body
Hurried to rebel by shattering
Every words of my poem.

Like the old railway lines
Discarded after the war
Hides its originality
In the rust and grassy grooves.
The rebels of another kind.
Like the silent crater of sleeping volcano
Erupts the lava on the earth.
Every word of my inner minds,
That’s heaped in the coarse paper
Only perceived by my wounded heart.
Indeed it’s my poem.
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