Where is my breath?
Why has the air malfunctioned?
Where are my armbones,
my collarbones?
Where do I belong now?

What I’m about to live
is it the future,
or the dead end
of repeated funerals?

My body is lost.
I am wriggling
on river shores
forming, deforming,
like mist
in the air.

The time horizon
has changed for me.
I am ancient
and new
with no existence
to pursue.
My cassette tapes,
and music system,
the lounge area
with diaries,
ballpoint pens,
and evocative art photo frames
is harassing my memories,
like creases
happening to ironed luxurious drapes.

I am recognizing
the unlearnt now.

Do ghosts
have a different language?
Will I have to cross
seven oceans,
Blanc Massif,
or Baintha Brakk
to pregnant myself
with this new world energy?

The pocketful of inquiries
are making
my ghostly existence
a wonder.
Is this how
you become wonderful?
Just like an arrow
when released from a bow
has to land
somewhere
will my soul,
now released
from the body,
carry
the same intentions?

Who fixes those intentions?
Is this God?

I lived by intelligent people
and their intelligent drama,
few clinic stopovers
and I was dead
as a middle-aged man.

Does a soul
get assigned a doctor too
like the deathbed,
death place,
and death time?

The Autumn of Death
is swallowing
my summer of survival
serving as an apothecary
to the rainy erasure of this life,
and promising a spring
in heavens of strangers.

Is it a bait
or a transitional wait?

Dear God,
let me be the fish
in your waters.
I await the fish line,
to remain unbothered.
Caress.

.    .    .