The Final Knell

I’m running away

Every day

From the knell in my head

I’m pressing myself

Against figures of the dark kind

My heart

The enchanted garden

Now a forest of thorns

Allured by the eroticness of death

Apathetic of life

I run no more

I disintegrate

To a transparent sky full of nooses

A final solemn knell, I hear

I curl up and whisper “Every rope is a noose, and every noose is a rope.”

The whispering ceases

I meet my quietus.

© Aniket More