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The Art of Resurrection: Transforming Trauma into Triumph

It’s a slit in a seal,
The wound in the curtain is stark,
The disfigured darkness looms macabre,
The silence sounds spectral.
It’s a losing battle,
The eyes are also giving in to the sun,
Wiping the smears from
My darkness is now beyond.
It was passionately concocted,
The purgative for the
phobias and phantoms,
trials and tribulations,
frets and fumes,
I exhaled through the night.
Slain, I rise from the bed,
Draw the curtain,
The funeral-flames fill the room, as
darkness breathes its last into me.

Picture design Anumita Roy

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