Fever

There are matchsticks lit
Behind my reddening eyeballs

The loo of the Indian northern plains
Those hot, dry, dusty gusts
Flow through my nostrils

My throat is a parched, cracked piece of land
Like desert sand,
It drinks and drinks and drinks
But the entire ocean could not quench its thirst—
It absorbs it all
Never wetting, ever dry
Coughing up nothingness

Tired
Heavy lids
I want to fall to my knees
Fall asleep
I feel Hypnos embracing
My tired, aching body
But he lets go
Lets go just on the edge

So I'm treading this line
Like the virus, who treads the line
Between living and non-living
I keep swaying on the borderline
Ever uncertain, never stable.

8th April/ (8/30) / Free verse

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