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It started

At the hairpin bend,

My right side shifting to the left,

Sinking, gasping for breath,

A turtle rolling over in my head.

Neck deep in a quagmire,

Tucked in like in a bed,

Caught in a minefield sleepwalking,

And not very nearly dead.

A bedroom vanishes overnight

And I wake up in the attic,

A memory maligned and drugged out,

Now suddenly painfully didactic.

Last night, in the candles’ lies,

I had spiders for dinner.

Confused like an Irish batsman

at the sight of a spinner.

Isn’t this the worst hangover,

sugary, coated with love,

Wake me, take me, make me vanish,

Oh sweet mother of God above.

I took a bubble bath in a borrowed mirage,

And walked into my trap laughing.

All this will end, at the hairpin bend,

In the comfort of my own coffin.

Bala Sai
PGP 22

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