Flipped Hourglass
Life, here hangs on a filmy thread of hope
Unskilled acrobats, making tight rope walks
With the deep chasm gaping below
Some too fatigued to feel the stress,
Empty beds bearing
The scars of lost battles
Shaded rooms brooding in the gloom,
Pervading silence speaking mutely
Of burnt hopes and dreams,
Of flipped hour glasses!
The morbid stillness
Occasionally broken
By stifled groans and whimpers
In a corner room, he lay,
A dead heap upon the bed,
With no one to keep vigil,
Loneliness, his only companion!
Crowds of fans queued up once
To have just a glimpse of him!
Now suddenly grown older
With all energy vanquished,
He stares into the claws of Death.
His frail emaciated body,
Rejecting the drops of toxic drugs,
The dried up neurons refusing
To send signals to the brain,
Eye balls sinking deep,
Cheek bones sticking out,
Tentacles of cancer tightening hold
On every lobe of his lungs,
He lay looking at the granules of sand
Sliding slowly down, so slow at snail’s pace
That he wishes if the hour glass, all of a sudden
Had flipped upside down!
He lay- on his bed,
A dead log tossed by the currents
Moving in and out of consciousness
He was finally trapped in the snares of Death.
The vanquished soldier exited out,
Sans songs, sans fanfare!
Placed First
Jan.2.2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol.28 Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Copyright © Valsa George | Year Posted 2022
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