Dragonfly

The crows were my alarm clock that morning. Not to wake me up but to tuck my mind under high amplitude delta waves as my body turned to the left side of the bed and then to the right and it didn't end there. The night had slyly escaped without being answerable to Karma for sedating my room with darkness.

She dropped in through the window which was slightly open to let the toxicity pour out of the room. Cigarettes don't smell good but they lure you to spend dim nights with them anyway. She flew in with her glass like wings, wings which had a legacy of 300 million years. I was bewildered by the way she remained so poised. Could I possibly tell her about how the cat in the neighborhood carried the dead meat in his mouth and then hurried to a corner with an intention of self-preservation? It wasn't a murder, it was survival of the fittest. While coming here did she notice the barbed wire where the pink flowers were held hostage? Did she care to understand how they have been prevented from going beyond the line of control? She might say she didn't have the time to do so and I would give her the benefit of doubt because why would someone who could fly high bother to spare a few minutes to understand what it felt like to live at the mercy of a dictator.

I didn't utter a single word and neither did she. Later that morning when I looked for my slippers under the bed, I saw two bodies lying there but the legacy of their wings lived even after them.

©songbriti