Broken and Shaken & A Vial of Lost Hope

by Avantika Singhal

BROKEN AND SHAKEN

Air has left our gaping mouths
with astounding celerity. Our
toes are blue and black from being
pressed on repeatedly. The buildings shiver,
they rattle, and they writhe above the ground
on which they stand precariously. The trees are
nervous too, their branches flailing around as if
they know they are being uprooted by the stringent
hands of Nature. The fear is ubiquitous.
Our eyes are silver with fear and florid
with grotesque excitement. Earlier, our homes
were insalubrious but now, so are our hopes.
We stand until we exist only as specks of dust and
a handful of tears. We have turned into winged creatures
with no souls. We still stand by the rubble, waiting
for it to happen again and again until we are swiped away
forever from the abode we once called home.

A VIAL OF LOST HOPE

When I was twelve,
dreams were the only things I ever
truly owned. I caged them in the
palm of my hand and took them everywhere.
Like the school playground where I halted the
dust from reaching them.
Even when I floundered through life,
they stayed captive, wedged into my
warm skin, feeding me strength.
Today, when the dark clouds are pressing
oppressively against my chest and suffocating
me, my dreams rise and dissipate into thin air.
I try holding on to them. I fail.
If I were insane enough, I would pen down a
sentimental obituary on them and get it published.
If I were insane enough, I would be a decent poet.
What would my dreams look like now?
I think they must be devastated, recumbent
particles glimmering like stars in the belt of
the night sky. And, if my dreams were
meaty appendages with eyes and hair,
they’d deride the spirit I lost when I let my
nemesis win. Dreams were the only things
I truly ever owned and now, I have nothing.

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