
Night adds on night, like wreaths of ivy,
clouding the room with serpentine meshes of epiphanies.
A drunk strangeness grows within me;
its queer seed sprouts and blooms,
bloating all my insides with a delicacy
most lethal;
or rather, coiling my aura subtly with an endless knot—whose head I crush
with shamanic words.
I scribble hard until I tear the pages of my mind. Outside, a colossal conglomeration of lilies and rainwater sweep over.
Inside, my mind’s eye takes a stroll
to the aboriginal land of soul’s paradise;
where I trample over weary petals:
sunken they are, with the earthly sap.
I cry, “Ruined I am with alleys of brothels,
and a beggar with closed doors of giving.”
“Living with grief changes you.” A motherly voice slams through the corridors of my ribcage, where a canary bleeds its voice.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sayani Mukherjee is a budding writer and an ardent lover of literature. She hails from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. Currently, she is pursuing her Master’s Degree in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Recently her writing has been published in the literary magazine of her current alma mater. In her free time she likes to engage herself in the world of cinema, art and cooking.