"Where is my breath?

Why has the air malfunctioned?

Where are my armbones,

my collarbones?

Where do I belong now?

What I’m about to live—

is it the future,

or the dead end

of repeated funerals?"

My body is lost.

I am wriggling

on river shores—

forming, deforming,

like mist

in the air.

The time horizon

has changed for me.

I am ancient

and new—

with no existence

to pursue.

My cassette tapes,

and music system,

the lounge area

with diaries,

ballpoint pens,

and evocative art photo frames—

is harassing my memories,

like creases

happening

to ironed luxurious drapes.

I am recognising

the unlearnt now.

Do ghosts

have a different language?

Will I have to cross

seven oceans,

Blanc Massif,

or Baintha Brakk—

to pregnant myself

with this new world energy?

The pocketful of inquiries

are making

my ghostly existence

a wonder.

Is this how

you become wonderful?

Just like an arrow

when released from a bow

has to land

somewhere—

will my soul,

now released

from the body,

carry

the same intentions?

Who fixes those intentions?

Is this God?

I lived by intelligent people

and their intelligent drama,

few clinic stopovers—

and I was dead

as a middle-aged man.

Does a soul

get assigned a doctor too—

like the deathbed,

death place,

and death time?

The autumn of death

is swallowing

my summer of survival—

serving as an apothecary

to the rainy erasure of this life,

and promising a spring

in heavens of strangers.

Is it a bait

or a transitional wait?

Dear God,

let me be the fish

in your waters.

I await the fish line,

to remain unbothered.

Caress.