The Closure

The cursor blinks

For over five minutes,

Tapping the keyboard,

But the letters manslaughtered,

Leaving the page bloodspilled,

The cursor blinks epileptic.

The closure,

Lead me anywhere

Near beginning,

Rather, perpetual,

Nowhere from here,

None anywhere ahead.

Time truncated,

My mind, senses and subconscious,

The ghost of my shadow has

Preceded everywhere I go,

At the lunch table; on the bed, and

Even pitching falsettos in my dreams.

The coffee's waiting for me,

A smokescreen of tardiness,

Heating the letters up,

The wizardry factory will

Conjure some fermented brews,

Before my eyelids wrap the balls.

I could drink to insobriety,

Unplug the radio,

Tear out a loosen leaf, from my old diary,

Or an Angel could peck my fingers,

On the keys,

To break the long brood.

I wish there could be a complete power cut,

A tear gas in my bleary eyes,

A thick forehead and a brittle breath,

So I could not hear my thoughts breathing,

It has been keeping me awake,

Counting the blinks.

I would rather just drop dead

At my layers of slumbers,

Puff out the falsetto,

Darken the letters,

So they will all look the same,

Indiscriminately free.

Playing out my closure,

On the centerstage of glares and gazes,

For thirteen days on stage,

My final playwright and fights,

Hanging my shadow,

By the moon, incarcerated.