Written by Ayush Banerjee
A shadow;
his tattered
and grotesque self
that lingers inside
the four walls
of a room splashed
with
burnt colors
of the midnight sorrow.
Visible only
as it passes
through the slightest
ray of light,
so narrow.
His shadow
once resided
and became
a part of
everything he touched,
he felt,
he observed,
he thought,
he brought,
yet
now, it is the color
of his shadow;
the aura of opacity
that surrounds him,
that has entangled
his channels of
the mind,
churning daylight
out of his eyes,
that had once
made him human,
but which has now
made him accept
that
it is he
he who is now
a part of the darkness
of his own shadow.
Where he must
no longer recognise light,
where rigidity and stagnancy
is what makes
his existence right
and
he must reside
amidst the walls coloured
in black,
where obscurity
encircles his body.
Where he must breathe,
stay alive,
by absorbing
anything that shines bright.
He realised,
that maybe
the uncertain shadow
has clasped onto him,
tighter than ever
looming in and around
his room,
casting a shade
of an enigma
around objects
that were close to him,
because
it was the part of
him, separate,
yet attached,
that in turn
was lonelier
than he could ever be.
That longed for
his touch
that wanted to be
looked upon,
yet the only one,
the only constant
in his life,
which was often,
neglected.
