Moonlight Sonata

Pensively holding the cigar,
blowing melancholic smoke rings,
sitting by the lampshade
with a pose depicting weltschmerz,
the lady deeply sighs and
pens down her reflection
for the last and the final time.
Where did it all begin?
Had it been there from the very beginning?
An incognito feeling of asphyxiation.
An oblique emotion of whisking thoughts, sweltering the body,
smothering the existence.
A certain madness,
an oracular bedlam,
conceptions and gestures hegemonized by
overwhelming mental kerfuffle.

A firefly wings in through the window
and balks the desolation.

Ah those memories!
The sprawling beam of pleasure
upon recieving the first Christmas presents from Santa.
The first ever vanilla flavoured icecream
mixed with an ingenious zing.
The dragonfly alighting on the leaf
and drinking from the drop of dew.
Feeding those fluttering pegions rice grains.
The scintillating fireflies in the midst of the dense dark woods.
Mamma’s solicituous and unwinding embrace.
A warm and salubrious touch that quashes every feeling of woe.
If there’s so much artistry, grandeur and serenity in nature,
then why this tohubohu?

The lizard approaches unwaveringly
and snaps the firefly.
On the wall,
with an eerie silence,
the lizard waits,
glaring at the lady.
The cold, satiny metal
sits on the table silently,
glinting in the lamplight,
it gives an eldritch stare at the lady.
The perfervid beam of light
burns at her chest and fingers.
She is willing to write but why this delirium again?
Where did the diaphanous pleasure of the memories vanish?
Why the recurring doldrums?

The head harbours a conflagration,
eating and burning up the sloppy fragments
of the matter within.
The heat is unfading and obstinate,
knackering the consciousness,
desperately disposed to
break open the shield
and be released.
Need to break open the skull.
Beat it several times with a heavy rock or
direct the bullet at the medulla oblongata.
The heat is the soul.
Chronically attempting to escape.
It’s finding ways of vamoosing
through scorching tears,
red eyes,
thoughts like sparkling entangled wires which pertinaciously crowd the head,
oppressive stinging at the centre of the chest,
muddling the undulating motion of the breast.
The rising furore within makes the body shiver.
The soul screeches in agony,
demanding impatiently to be manumitted.
It has had enough.
Years of turmoil,
dismay,
in shambles,
a feeble slave to the nature of humanity.
Years of being ensnared in the cell of life,
reticently living with the darkness and
preternatural silence.
Not a flicker of light,
not a moment of peace.
The cell of life is a sinister abyss
devoid of animation.
The only matter occupying the cell is the
swarming crowd of thoughts and maelstrom.
The stubborn soul directs the lady at the shining metal on the table.
“I’ve written what I had to write. Nothing matters. I’ve let out myself. I am just more of a hollow bag of meat now.”,
the lady whispers to herself.
The record playing the Moonlight Sonata comes to a halt.
The cigar butt burns it’s last flame.
The Lizard waits in anticipation.
A distant click of trigger can be heard from the neighbouring room.
Then a strident short lived boom.
A noise of splattering matter dropping on the floor.