Thatha's old alarm clock. On the floor,
Beside an empty bed, it lay shrilling,
Each beat resounding loudly off the walls.
I didn't hear it from inside the bathroom,
Where cold water surged through pipes
And blocked out the outside. It wasn't much
To wake up to, that morning, and
Eventually, the ringing subsided. Stopped,
Dead in its tracks, as the coconut trees
Along the balcony had. With no wind,
There was no movement, almost no sound.
This is what I stepped into, what a two-minute
Shower left me with. Nothing, save purity.
An eerie cleanliness, that spread itself
Across the floors and reminded of
Blank pages, similar to this. What happened
Were only events to fill the emptiness
And create. In a way,
It was the alarm clock that called for creation,
While all along, we craved it.