By Aneesh Chatterjee
Shuttering, stuttering, staggering and shattering, almost shaken to small smithereens,
Lay rattling the rusty open windows, by the reckless rant of rough and rude gale.
Drumming drops dampen the door and the floor, in absence of a barrier to intervene.
Wished to shut it but I fail, agony prevails, hand’s too frail, face's pale, I dejectedly exhale.
A crumbling branch carries a crazy crow crying “caw!”, cackling, creating a chaotic cacophony.
The porcelain vase—pastel purple—houses wilting pink periwinkles, once perfect, now perishing.
The teak clock terrorises my frame, making it tremor as it ticks and ticks and ticks terribly.
The little luminescent linen lampshade radiates a lemony light that’s just barely lingering.
The walls and ceiling weep water, and the wild wind whistles and wanders around.
This nebulous, notorious night—so nefarious and nauseating—is the ninth one in November.
Then a knock creeps into my ear, a knock only I could hear, a knock in the 25th year—
An unforeseen yet awaited sound.
Enters a handsome, haunting man who holds me in his hands,
Strokes my head, my lips, my hips—filling me with pleasure.
He is the freedom full of restraint, the pain that cures all pain,
The lover who loves forever, the very warmth in an icy breath.
Is it you? It is you! Oh, the man of my dreams!
Take me away from this sickening misery, my dearest, dreadfully delightful death!