The room stood bare,
And the bed void of a mattress,
Where the rusty fan hanged,
Orange streaks of rust decorated it
Words have no place in this foul air,
The dark figure lay there silently,
The stench of death and misery,
The deafening silence of the night
He was more the merrier yesterday,
When he walked into his usual world,
To play with his roles in this drama of life,
To laugh and smile at the simple joys,
To cry and frown for the downfalls,
Wasn’t he supposed to pick up the pieces?
It hit him like lightning,
Of the past and the future,
Of what was and what was going to be,
Tears formed on the corner of his eyes,
He built his own fortress,
His walls of solitude,
Tuning out from the frequencies of the world
The race to the top no longer concerned him,
The books no longer interested him,
The movies of his stars bored him,
The tunes of his idols seemed soul-less
The phone rang away into the night.
His life flashed by,
The sacrifices and the gifts,
The hellos and the goodbyes,
The world that he ever saw,
Was the world that he got stuck in.
The silence was now all the gold,
The silence was what soothed him now,
The deafening comfortable silence,
The silence that took his life away,
The suicidal silence.
Vijaya Balan (2009)
