Sweta Maloo- A Poem

ODD COMPANY

 

One odd winter night,

my wooden legs crossed an old friend;

a fiend

really.

One I felt compelled to tail out of sight.

 

He was the drunkard;

I, a mere storyteller.

And the night was long,

with the moon gone.

So, words grew dispassionate.

 

A pointless barter indeed.

 

But each coil of his skin

whipped my blood mad with desire;

akin to a quagmire.

Really, it felt odd bubbling

with a yearning

that had yet to tire.

 

Fear, this song of the mind,

rippled.

And quite alike seawater lapsing to shore –

except fiery and fiendishly fierce it was –

a thirst for new lore gripped me.

“Would my blood sizzle inside?”

“Could his ensnaring crust drizzle cinder

at the kiss of light?”

 

Thoughts churned words.

 

But the night was long,

with the moon gone.

So, I wore each sting

like some prized attire

and awaited dawn to slither by,

willing it to douse the fire.

 

Yet when it came, hopes grew grim –

as the lights were already dim.

 

My friend had died.

 

Eyeing those glorious golden-green scales

knifing his skin,

it, somehow, felt right

that around mine, it was roped tight.

For really,

the poison was in me.

 

Man, after all, was I.