De Profundis

They say your cheeks are mysteriously moist, as you lay
Your lips are rosy, and this faint smile is printed on your face in all obliviousness to the hilarity of world
You would open your eyes occasionally when the room is crowded
Perhaps when your favorite reader recites your favorite Surah on the radio
Or when your mother whispers to you a lullaby from a distant childhood
She
Sounds so grave as she brushes your hair, hung on your brows
The lyrics seem to have escaped the tips of her tongue

You look 
But you don't see

Hey, what's your name, quite friend ?
I shall call thee Prince Whishkin
So what are you thinking about right now, Whishkin ? it can't be bile with that pleasant smile
I shall ask you, you'd understand the meaning of it all better than most of our lot
For we are all blind
Puzzled and confined
You, after all, are the emobidiment of our most horrifying blot
Being stuck in time, frozen on the line wrecks the lain plot, ya see
If I learnt that you opened the eyes of your soul for a bit, I'd awfully be interested to know what you found
Stay, do you wonder how did a stranger, though mind their life they are ought
Have grown such a deep fondness of you
Stops to gaze at you so eloquently from afar, yet daren't step closer
Pray for you to come back from the vortex of nought
Or reach the other shore
Though the pain you'd leave behind is a bottomless bore

I hear they are taking you away, soon

Tired of waiting, I guess

Don't be surprised, we were born impatient
And cases of charity aren't kept for long, when they aren't much copious
Guardians of the patient
Regardless, I'm not that strong to speak in locutions instead of weak metaphors
To face your smile and not shatter into pieces
It mocks my whole existence
My vile breakdowns while working on my thesis
I'm not yet strong to stand in front of your lifeless body
Asking for absolution for my pulsing limbs that write these meek phrases
You stall your fate as you tip-toe on a fine line across the crevice
Though you swing at the faintest wind you still hang in place, in such grace

Refusing to fall

There is a storm of vigor trapped in these lungs and your soul 
Seems to have grown wings

Perhaps
You would pardon my obstinate refusal to call, if you knew my faint will
For your sight would scar this young gill
And it's not your frailty, by all means not my confounded compassion
What torments me in this fashion
As I stare at your vulnerable body, wrapped in a network of lifelines,
The frozen tips of your fingers,
And your head ,so bare
Your graying hair

It's none but your strength, mon cher

A strength that I'd never match, though your chest seems as still as a black forest
And the rim of your cape of victory, I will never catch
Grand and august
An uproarious tempest
Your strength, a presaging wave soaring from the depths
An epic tremor of insurrection, roaring

"There is still life in here"

There is still life in there, and it humbles me

I stare from my place, unbeknownst to you
With lips sealed tight, eyes recording an Iliad before its prime
Frozen in time
Robbed of its solemn rhymes
Its past and future
Its angst and torture
Of the thrum of life, and the finality of mortem
You got nothing but to persevere 
Every second 
Is a life time 
Every breath 
Is a puff of burning obduracy against the chill of death

Pray, tell
How does life become so precious when you we right at the frontier ?
Why are we so ingrate and capricious to realize that there is no price tag
On being alive, no matter how drear
That if we had to decide whether we could reside on a cliff
A square so narrow that there is only room for our feet
With the abyss beneath, the ocean, eternal darkness
Eternal solitude on which you could lengthily brood
For a lifetime, a thousand years, an eternity so queer
That it would've been much better to relish on a promise of tomorrow
Right then and there, than to perish down to our marrows

I gaze at you where my ears could pick the cries of that bleak box
That announces the state of your heart and lungs
And I heave and pant with every morbid round
Though I should've gotten around by now
A little mound up there
A wearisome trip up the hill
A slip down a chasm
A perpetuity in wait for that sound
Chiming my breaths to the rhythm of your beats, profound
Though calm and still
Like an ancient psalm

Hey,

What would I do if you left before I climbed out the pit, Whishkin ?