Charu Sharma writes

We break against the dirt of the ground

with the loudest thud,

it's there for everyone to hear

it's there for everyone to see.

A glass pane put back together

from its broken shards

isn't as transparent;

you can trace the deep grayish sadness

running along the long lines of its cracks,

just on the brink of turning entirely opaque.

Under my navel

runs a deep chasm,

my voice has always gotten lost

in its depth;

the door to my room left slightly ajar

just to remind me

that there is a way out

from this all consuming Dark.

This place is whimsical,

sometimes I am asphyxiated

while at others, I somehow catch a

whiff of breath.

Monotony in the constant murmurs,

a sign of commotion

yet it feels so soul less;

I am surrounded mostly by blinds,

strictly confined in their designated

row number on a particular column,

while I am always spilling out

of this rigid structure,

wondering at the possibility

of an absolute silence:

Would it feel as much dead, or

could it deaden any more?

A grey bird atop a penthouse

against the pinkish hues of the sky,

some purple splurted here

some orange intervened from there,

I overlooked

this one day

from a window running from floor to ceiling;

what an overwhelming quiet, what an absolute

forgetfulness

that I didn't even realize that

at just that moment

I had developed an urge to fly!