The days are insensitively inactive
not a ray of sun has entered the room for months
the initial dependence on light is gone
perceptions are clear
for they are selective now
a cold peace is smothering the mind silently


like a drop of ink on blotting paper
melting butter on a hot pan
or better yet
locust attacking a field

the bed is damp
floor slippery
the food on the white ceramic plate still untouched
glass of water , under suspicion


almost everyone has been here to see me

he is dead
and I sit in a corner
writing poems of protest