In The Psychiatrist's Office

It’s a talk, a long talk

Among pigeons that sit on a live wire waiting to be electrocuted

On a rainy day, short circuits, blown out fuses, at play

Brain chemicals move like volcanic eruptions

The slow hot lava spreading like indefinite waves

It’s not a mental illness, it’s a mental injury.

The jargon of psychosis has new meanings

People talk, talk, talk on Ted Talks, in subways,

In mosquito-infested streets, in schools, in hospitals,

In by-lanes where there is no such thing as healing

Talk moves to turbulence, a jet suspended in thin air

Monosyllables move to monotone, technicolor changes to monochrome.

Life is an abysmal well of sertraline with a dash of theine diazepine

A potent mix of life and death hanging in the entrails of insanity

Outside the window, the wind is sane, trees retain their personality,

The color of the sky dissolves in the indigo of the sea,

Everything is in perfect tune and harmony

The air conditioner hums a well-rehearsed symphony

The ceiling fan dances to the tune of orchestrated air

The heels hurt after consistent rubbing against the floor

You know you are a tired ballerina who can dance no more.