Friday, July 30, 2010

The Itch

At last, the wind,
winding its way,
through the restless leaves
of sap-encrusted trees
has reached me now,
at this hour,
so I can breathe
something other than the stench
of obscenely clinging malarial heat.

The sky is gray dark deep invaded,
by an army of gestating clouds.
They shall now,
have the last word-
the sun's autocracy
would be shifted:
he shall be imprisoned for a few restful days.
Such is the way of monsoon summer.

And so I sit becalmed
by the cool, shimmering breeze
but for an itch,
beneath the plane
where we employ, our finer sensibilities.
So as I reach out,
towards a pale blue packet,
I wonder whether I should have
another cigarette or
delay my death
by a few more gasping breaths.


The Scrybe said...

Breathtaking! <3

Zaina Anwar said...

Really?. True to life, after I wrote it, I couldn't stop laughing at myself- darkly humorous, I suppose, at least to me. Thank you for reading it, Scrybe.

The Scrybe said...

Oh yes, I loved it; I'm familiar with this craving!

Akeith Walters said...

Really good writing.

Zaina Anwar said...

Thanks, Akeith.

Francis Scudellari said...

Definitely a bit of dark humor, but it works very well.