How It Feels?

Tell me, because I'm not told of

how it feels to be touched,

to be swallowed in a gulp,

or to breathe inside a container

with a tight lid covering over my body.

All I do is float, fly, get heavy

and then cry.

All I've done my damn entire life is

drawing shades over the land:

shapes people could never identify right.

The blame I endure

for obstructing the sun,

for downpouring on wee hours

and to not reap harvest on time

adds the weight on me,

pulling me down

to the point that a mountain can

pierce my chest.

Even if I walked on earth,

fainted on a road,

bleeding my heart out,

counting my breath till it last swept

and left the ground

and if someone spotted me cramping,

where's home?

Which direction should they take me

to reach my grave

or to rest on the hospital bed on time;

having someone to hold my hand

and wishing to peep into the dreams

I am not awakened from any soon.

Where's that love

people get when their death is declared.

Who'll mourn for me? Nobody.

No cloud can cry for me.

No river can take me along.

So, tell me

how it feels

having no sky to touch,

no desires

as plaintive as mine

but something more cloudy

stuffed in the same sky

like home,

like closeness

and of days you left

for somewhere together.