Mamta Singh
Dripping warm blood from
The edge of a shimmering knife
It's smell
Blistering my nostrils
From inside
Pukish and feverish
It's sinking my soul
In a salty sweat
Staining my body
In a bloody mess
Pitch black sky
With a handful of moons
Rotating around
The corner of my eyes
If ever my foot stops
These moon
Would loom down
from the sky
Play a game of football
Where I becomes the ball
Hitting so hard
That I pray
For death
But that's the last
I would get
Zooming sounds of
All frequencies
Thumping my heart
Pushing my intestines out
And making them move
Towards my mouth
Scared is not an
Apt word
For what I feel
Haunted could
Really mean
The sight
Of my plight
Could terrorise
The bravest
Of brave hearts
Smelling blood and flesh
Moving in darkness
With these moons
To detest
Alarmed by
The screeching sound
My lungs gasped for
Some air
In a moment and -boom
A flash of light
Explosive sound
Of a bomb
My eyes opens
Sun is shining
Over the horizon
With the night
The dream is gone
But the horror
In me
Still lingers on.