Sunday, August 24, 2008

THE WRONG SUSPECT

"I've never heard of the gang"
He screamed as pins pricked
His finger tips.
Shutting his eyes so hard
The eyeballs might've been pushed
To the back of his brain,
But how could he sedate his nerves?

They left him, locked
To bring back monstrous
Relics from Cretaceous times.

His nerves just stopped squirming
Like the eel fished out of the sea
Released to a puddle,
Soon to resume the death pain.

He cupped his hands,
Boring his fingers into the face
That resembled the criminal's
His neat life shredded apart,
He attires himself in chill
To bring back escaping vapours.

( This poem is from my book 'One Hundred Poems' published by Writers Workshop. Next Sunday I will post one of my unpublished works)

6 comments:

Art and Poetry said...

It's very creative well done!

Chaggoholic.... said...

I must say quite a descriptive experience one not so sensitive to be imagined so well by someone totally on the other side of the fence....

I saw you visited my blog. Do check the other earlier posts too....

Subhadip said...

one of the goals of poetry might be to create a scene or visual as expressively as possible, which the poet himself/herself has never experienced. In this respect this poetry is a success.

Deva said...

It comes through with much force!

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