waiting, counting, the hours are rhythmic
timed and passed by the slow bruising
of dried-peach skin to sick blackcurrant
ringing metal beats out the hours I'm losing

although, is my time gained, as others are
sleeping; immune to the gloried stars
swimming in my eyes, and one more blow
eyes closed, mind draining to the dark

I see the dawn in all its false hope
out of step and keeping my own time
dullish aching through bones to heart
with sluggish veins powering a body's decline

sickness is sick; I am not in health
nails blueishly giving away my failure
to guard my sanity, its repercussions
leave me lying broken, bent, impure

tear-stained minutes tick disjointed
I'm underwater: airless, trapped
around me they fly, I sink, I die
now watch me fall off the inky map.

*© Tara India.