So stereotypical of the night to play these tricks again
Bullies & their targets mix again
Attempting to sabotage, whatever rationality is left about
With enough sentences phrased to leave no room for doubt.
And the prisoners are asking him to stop.
To view smoke and hear cough
Deranged by the blocks, that are closing in near.
How does it feel?
When you are pawned for your soul?
Shivs & swinging blows
And praying that the raise goes on
Enough to keep you awake till dawn
But by sunrise all pretenders will be gone
So, consider this a swan song.
The lightbulb flickers; the old woman at the bar serves another traveller.
His prison jumpsuit and silent face tells her he is wanted for murder
The woman couldn’t care less; for she is not at all impressed
An escaped prisoner can never really escape
A murderer is a weak man running away from his fears
“How does it feel?
To not be in control? To not feel whole?”
–Gore.
The cops taper off the scene. Lights flash uncharacteristically around the tavern.
A gun shot was heard loud at this late time of hour.
The cops take out, whatever is left of her.
She is shivering in fear; his dead face brings back tears.
For his eyes still resembled of that when he was young
And she remembers how she used to call him,”Son.”
Before he was taken away for a petty steal
How does it feel?
To finally see your son after so long?
Still there but mostly gone?
The tavern still plays his favourite songs.
And the bullet and the body are thrown out at dawn.
Himanshu Chakravarty Sharma / मंच 