Bubbles : Subhadeep Paul

 

The night of our lives

Lies prostrate in comatose

Our neighbours are exoplanets

The epiphany of every single diurnal hour

Are the few seconds of an ambulance siren

Deferred plans are stinking fish that slowly float 

On the inert waters of the industrial pond of hope

Our ancestral heirloom are deep-rooted heritage trees

Now felled outside a morgue that some call the Parliament

Where words are bubbles that tease dead lives in a travesty of justice.