Truama Of The Dying

The   Seasonal  cycle  takes its turn,

Summer‘s   terracotta   recedes,

bids  adieu  to  the  Gardener,

This bitter Winter, Why should  I

Call it bitter, it follows its norms,

The ornamental, Curtain’s   twist and roll,

in the gaps, my peep outside:

some jolly, more  to   jettison the  angst

of fear, survival and  torment,

they live for  the  ‘today’ , the moment.

Not far away, the uncaring, careless,

 the wrestling ,warring humanity,

the  twang of   surgical  instruments

don’t  disturb me  anymore.

The  ward  boys  move about  mechanically,

I  stretched out my legs, relax,

On this cot which bore many

moving  in out often.  

Sit   up, look at the wall,

The clock ticks, tick! Tick!

It  is  the Timer.