In My Flesh

In My Flesh short poem

Photo by Daniele Zedda

Like most men in the past,
Death eludes my ample frame.
Though he strikes up
Fascinating conversations,
Helping me soar to newer
Flights of fantasy.

Sometimes he watches me
From across the table as I empty
Satches of caramelised sugar
Into wide smoking cups of coffee.

Sometimes I talk to him about
Chess and Bergman –
Looking into his deepset eyes
With all the vanity
Of comfortable boredom
And fleshy numbness.

Like most men, he finds the
Smell of flesh unsettling
And throws cheeky lines at me
About my soul.

And yet, our fingers never touch.

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asoke kumar mitra
Member

lovely write. very deep thought indeed. style is very new.

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