Living God

Mother And I

He, I hear, is terminally ill…  

I rush down from a city far

To be with my living god !

Smell the odor of a life churned

Spent pure

On balance, hard earned.

He indeed is terminally ill…

By his bed I bear the blast

Of brilliance trapped in torpid cast

Of failing body

A morbid repast

Of macro nature

Knawing unseen

The flesh in pasture

Untill we discover

The transcending power

Of a touch :

The links our immortal

And we silently sense

The surge

Of the best being

I’ll ever be

In his trusted shadow

Sometime in a future farwawy.

He is then in my each recall

Limpid, towering and fearless

Friendly, loved

And compassionate

Spirited deep, respected

Sharp immense

Now reduced to just half a tense …

Witnessing in eerie

I sense the night stretch

In his fixed look

Staring soft and resonate

To sounds of scripture I read

Till It then happened

In quick succession

His withdrawal calm

Recession from this realm

And his last breath.

Our wait… stilled

Silence howling within

Through death…

And cremation.

 * * *

The news drew the shallow heirs

To commiserate

Posing red weird

Seeming low, stooping lower

Eyes glued to assets meager

Broaching sly their soft claims

Iliberal, their covet strange

Set off odd

In hours of our pain

They trigger brawls

The woman faints of their free-for-all

Of men she nurtured

Loved, and made them tall

Were clawing now

As enemies sworn

Without a heart

Pitched against

In sub-human way.

Their game’s foiled with some wit

Calibrated drama, deliberately knit

It saddened us

Still at crease

In space secured

We convalesce in peace :

Mother and I in rally

Succour each

So happily.

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