HANGING ON

 I saw violence,

I tasted pain,

I got mad.

He said he would not die,

I said it’s a lie.

For no one lynched by angry mobs,

Ever lived to tell the tale.

And yeah, you asked me.

Did he die?

For I know not what to say,

His nose was broken,

His face they did disfigure,

And limbs never to be fixed but amputated.

I checked his pulse, and it’s like,

I imagined him, breathing against my ear.

Illusion or not,

For I would not pronounce you dead.

Maybe he did die?

Maybe not.

For he lay numb and his heart was still.

Is that what you call death?

That even in deep slumber,

No matter how you shout or scream,

They still can’t hear you.

Not even this shrill feeling,

Can make me pronounce you dead.

If I have to dwell in this illusion forever, I come prepared.

Not on my life, will I pronounce you dead.

Neither with this quavering lips of mine.