B.A. Varghese

Soft humming, muffled chirps, rhythmic beeps choke
the air. Plunged tubes of elixir replace
veins. Masks for ailments with no cure.
The smell of stale pine lingers. Among
the bright white light surrounding the living
bodies with hollow eyes and hollowed-out hearts,
a darker visitor sits. Feelings
of restlessness grow. Folds and creases
press against me. Son of dust waits patiently.

He is inevitable, yet I do not reach out.

A conclusion of disease, a culmination of starvation, a delivering
hand out of fires, out of wrecks, out of sicknesses. Seekers
sweetly court and foes curse. Intentionally ignored,
overlooked, and unnoticed till time ordained.

He whispers, yet I do not reach out.

A reek of annihilation, extinction,
termination, destruction. Bound by no clock
with eternity to spare. Promises peace,
a calm, and a rescue with silence. Or
a void of nothingness, nonexistence.

He reaches out, yet I do not fear.

Through faith comes belief comes perception.
He becomes an escort, a guide, an attendant. A safeguard
of the steps to take from here to there, the voyage
taken between worlds.

I am at the end,
I reach out,
and I open my new eyes.