An Old Railway Line

In the death chamber confines The soul of my mind Handcuffed by tragedy Sentenced to death penalty Just close to a blink of my eyes With an illusionary greetings Of long lives Standing before me Face to face – My death. Startled I’m like the whirl Of the breeze on cobwebs Hanging in every corner Of this death chamber Not in use for centuries Neither I can blink my eyes Nor breathe my breath Asleep is the fireplace With only ashes Decomposed in wetted firewood Neither the wisp of fire Nor the glow of flame. Rusty hinges on the door Perforated by rust Through which holes Smirk the gloomy bored moon Seeking shelter for a night A moment of unpleasant and discontent Moans like a wild beast Severe wounds In inner of the minds Moans like a cry of spasm By unwilling sexual desire Seduced by the enemy In the defeated war Echoed from the walls around Fearing to have an ear Will shrunk In the emptiness of the room At any time the electric shock May turn the body to ashes Only a fistful of my breath Remaining in my body Will hurried to rebel by Shattering every words of my poem Like the old railway lines Discarded after the war Hides its originality In the rust and grassy grooves Rebels of another kinds Like the silent crater of sleeping volcano Erupts and scatters the lava on the earth Every word of my inner minds That’s collected in the coarse paper Only sensed by my wounded heart Indeed it’s my poem. September 11, 2003