Staggering with the dead

It’s cold, chilly winds

The hot warm soup

“It’s spicy”


Shutting off the tap,

it’s brass knuckles

leaving prints

on my hand


Tomato soup is red in color.


Warm and cozy

Like my pool.


I am lying beside it

Staining the blue tiles

Into maroon.


The blood-soaked water

Is now bloddy red in the



Fishes choke

on my platelets

They float

Like clouds in the sky


The sky is sparkling white

A white Mercedes

Is walking beside the bus.

The cold has creeped


My hands are numb,

My fingers are falling off,

Shell by shell

It peels off—my



In the midst of shrouds

and withered flowers

Mushrooms and dead plants grow in



The warmth of closed windows

has disappeared.


The sand is cold,

Dead people are icy.


The bus is gone

So is the distance.


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