Death In A Mug

You look like my grandma when she’s angry, or perhaps only the mug conjures the image. Am I killing neurons? Are you, my friend, murdering me gradually? But thank you, really! Feels like my eyelids are defying gravity even at this hour; my mind is still a thousand things but sluggish; my body, still stuck…

In A Funeral Where Nobody Cries

There’s a funeral where nobody cries; where the corpse lie in distort and people dress nice. Death was two fortnights ago yet, still unburied ’til now. “They must be waiting for someone,” One thought. “Or something, somehow.” Strange, it really is, Flowers withered, candles used out; Lamentations sung but don’t pierce, And the face seems…