My Diadem of Death

Shireen Khan

Running in circles,
round and round.

This has no beginning,
no rhythm,
or even a sound,
only a silent scream —
the background breeze.

And in my head
white noises, which aren’t
really noises anymore,
they’ve turned into screams,
bloodcurdling cries in my dreams,
only, they’re not dreams anymore,
and I’m not the one who’s crying —
just the background breeze.

And all the alarms are blaring
and red lights glaring
and I’m howling
and they’re roaring
and rats gnawing away at my brain.

And I want to
bang my head
against the wall
and dismantle
the cosy nest
of the squeaky rats
and tear down the whole damn infested shack.

And save my heart
that is falling through
my own two feet, down and down,
plummeting below the ground,
dragging me with it,
sinking and drowning,
filling my lungs up
bricks and pebbles.
Guess my ghosts are real
and here to stay
and I’m no priest
to make them leave.

So we keep running
in circles
round my head —
my own flower-band
of rotting weaves.

This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's August 2020 Issue.



  • Great work ❤️

    Hafsa Samim Sk
  • Such a lovely piece

    Sudeshna Ghatak
  • This is so good!

  • Amazing!

    Somik Datta

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