The Dead Man’s Whiskers

When the door opens, the rays of an Indian sun
barges in and slams with the dead eyes
of cheetahs and gazelles and
rhinoceros. The lion lies, neatly
skinned – magnificent du jour once, pointlessly
existent now, like the Belgian glass
chandelier that screams in silence.

Outside, plantains sway with the heavy summer wind,
and the broken Rolls Royce tells stories
of exuberance gone to the grave.

Terribly unbothered lines of vines grow on the walls;
Some even audaciously bloom in flowers. Mauve, Yellow,
persistent Red.

People are afraid of their past.
They say this house is a haunted mess; a villa of lust and
lushness once, now lies in as much abundance as a
lumber mill in Andaman.

Man, proud and smart – became the same
as the lion that he once killed. Dead eyes fill the
air with gaffes from the Sambar, chuckles of the
Hyena, yet the lion doesn't laugh.

Like a predator, it waits, no flesh, no bones.
It waits for an eternity for a chance.

Dead men can never escape.