The old age home
Feels dank, dark, depressed
A few bodies huddled together
Waiting for the mercy of death

The inmates wondering
Who shall be the next visitor
A son, a daughter, a friend
Or quietus in all its splendour

The relentless waiting, praying
Plays on their distraught nerves
Making them irritable, agitated
On the edge of a peppery curve

For the fortunate, select few
Coma comes as a respite
Isolating their hopeful minds
From their hopeless life

One lurking thought, however
Continues to haunt me
Is this my future as well
That I am failing to foresee

Subir Chakraborty / 2nd May 2018