A Day, A Life
I awake to grief. Amorphia, still so heavy.
Tiredness crouches over my eyelids, dark elbows
dig into my chest. The light jars. In sickness,
I wish upon dead stars. Meld into a sleeping world.
I catch a train to faux-joyous confinement,
dead weight moving through another station. Pity,
pity. Everyday’s a party if you wish hard enough.
I smile, but not enough. Death by dull-blade jokes.
I make enough money to deprive myself.
The middle-class dream is alive but not well. Ennui
and enervation intertwine, vipers around my fingers.
Writing is joyless. What a shame for none but me.
I rarely find my way back home. Concrete rage waits
behind my flat’s door. At least there’s a bed. Soft.
I turn off the lights and stare at the dark. I know
what comes in the morning. And yet, I sleep. Until –
growing forbidden fruit
our primary source of nourishment
is the seed of an idea. we sprout
leguminous from the soil, carrying
knowledge ground into us, eroding
rockfaced methuselah. irrigated
by human mythos, we entwine with ancient grass.
we grow into the harvest,
wisdom threshed from naivety.
sunbake the grains resilient from takshashila.
feed on utterances unadulterated
by conceit at the spout, free of clotted blood.
take in the aroma of daily bread. defy lethargy.
savour this feast of thought.
sate your throat with amrit.
take your time with adam’s fruit.
eat. fill yourself.
when we are sown again, we will deliver truth to our children.
Prem Sylvester is a writer from India who turns into words the ideas he catches a whiff of from time to time. Sometimes people read these words. His work has appeared in Memoir Mixtapes, Rising Phoenix Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rigorous, and Nightingale & Sparrow among others.