The living dead.

Yet another noon of a similar day.
The passage of time in a motionless way.

The rhythmic flutter of the curtain.
The movements of a dance of burden.

The periodic ticks of the clock on the wall.
Hands following each other in an untiring crawl.

The stoned look of the eyes of a doll.
The missing life and no joy at all.

The constant buzzing sound of the fan.
It's arms still stay at same span.

The unnerving silence of the graveyard.
Caws of ravens as they try to break it hard.

That patchy face on the wall of my room.
One with frozen look and constant gloom.

Whenever I look for it, it's always there.
Seeking company and asking for its share.

It agrees to all my thoughts how insane.
Never a word about it's gain and pain.

Eager as ever to start a conversation.
Meager as ever to lend any citation.

It doesn't sleep nor does it retire.
Every time it's up there in the same attire.

Am I lurking in the world or trapped in mind.
The answer is doubtful and hard to find.

The death is stillness and life a glide.
Am I alive.. Nay, I think long back I died.