EPEOLATRY

ART & POETRY

'Our kind of Apocalypse'

by Yash Sinojia

Suddenly, I was awaken by a loud buzzing transient noise so discrete;

My ears were ringing and my heart skipped a beat;

They were visible, the smoke was rising from the pits of darkness.

I felt suffocation, closed windows, extinguished lights, regulated fan,

I went out ….

I seek Siddhartha, saw the dust luminate by light shimmering from his room;

But a robust lock lay guarded the door clip, he must’ve gone.

I saved my breath and ran, descended twice the steps of stairs at a time;

‘Vots Happhennig?’ asked a white man in shorts, ‘Aporkalypse’ I hurriedly uttered;

The callous man showed me tongue, took out his phonite and tapped.

Finally, I was out in gasps stricken by an infrastructure upfront filled with pure milky fog;

The men in blue within were coming out with grins;

A denizen pointing at a key stuck on a dried out twig.

Grim-faced, I made to entrée of the mediocre brasserie;

Dipped some dal and forced some spinnached potato on plate rather reluctantly.

‘Heya, Brah! Ve’yo Mates?’ uttered the usual diner, ‘I do not know’ hesitated I;

‘What about the gas, did it? On our wing? a change in his tone;

Its ascendency fulfilled an affirmation, he added ‘Makes my tonsilius worse, already.’

It was dark, the heat wave on its peak;

I gazed the details of the big translucent windows on the wall,

And noticed the reflection of my company;

Briefly, I realized that sooner or later I’ll have to -

Return towards that nebulous haze.