Quiet scientific
quiet a statistic
the way my death
turns to naught.

A mutation, a concern
another zero bloated
found washed along
the Ganges plain.

A blind spot forgotten
by everyone,
a black fungus that
grows within.

A different kind of rot
finding its way
to the surface
( but when weren’t
we rotten )

The branches in my lungs
bear charred charcoal fruit
I blossom through
veins, black as doom.

Black, dark
blank, hopeless.
My breath is
rigor mortis.
I die like the Capital
on Diwali night,

Black, dark
blank, hopeless.
The black of my pupils
is seeping everything
i see, i touch,
i read, i feel
is only black,
tasteless ashes

and chimney smoke
choking my throat.

Notes: mucormycosis( black fungus) : a fungal disease recently been found in Covid patients , can lead to blindness

Crematorium Chimney falls off due to rush of dead bodies

Not our own

Where is poetry
in a world that keeps
us so far apart
You ask me

I tell you,
look even the birds
have come searching
for your feet in sand
and my kisses on your neck

This is poetry.

When what can be said
is said by voices
not always our own


the symptoms of the disease
were listed out by doctors

I feared not the consequences
which like everything
culminated in death
due to breathlessness,
Or the fatigue of the heart
but feared one symptom,
One symptom alone

The loss of sense of smell

How would a hound like I,
then know in my sleep
that you have turned away
from beside me
in our sleep


The skies are a different name of you,a different hue of your laughter

The skies always tell me
something else

to look up and not see you – absence
to look up and see the moon – solitude
to look up and name every star – freckles

and since that day
I learnt
to look at you
and long for the skies


What is poetry
To dream that i was
choking on letters
from a game of Scrabble

to wake up
embraced in silence
of your breathing

words, thoughts

all games won