Death Poem by Plabita Bhaskar

My heart it bawls...
Blubbering a lament.
Of those lethal afflictions;
A sore! and a wound!
And those filthy dissection!

Alas! I breed in crimson;
The smell of that rufous fluid;
Red and in wild torrent breeds...
The smell of a dead!
The smell of a sin!


A half-hung torso;
Eye balls popped!
It smells of strains of blood and sin;
Treacherously, malignantly;
Scorched, beheaded, axed to death;
At his tenebrific colosseum of death and doom.

He is an Eidolon Czar;
His austere tyranny;
He mocks the Dead!
He mocks the living!
Shushes! chortles! hisses! growls!
Roars to break the laws of life;
Creating supersonic repercussions...
Presents his sopranos for those dead and not living.

Alas! An apocalyptic corollary;
At his catafalque of vice.
Billowing tintinnabulation of his bells of death!
Here he comes with his fanatic terror.
Dead's hour! it's the death hour!
It ought to be.
It ought to be....