And such is the apathy of the self

Oh dear! What has transpired, in god's name has

The mind draws a blank, am lost in the thoughtlessness of absent verses

Like a river perennial, called so even late summers

Could I be called a poet, if I undergo a dry spell

I have always been ready, ready to scribble, and discard

But I have always had words, I always had you my dear words

This ungodly hour, of sudden gloomy Mumbai winter

I struggle to express, yet the mind seems to be in sonnets of voids

This void, unlike her absence, are a void of will

The sheer impasse, I am at between expressing and feeling

What would I an introvert do,  yes I know now I was

I have long yanked at her, that, it, this, them to help me feel

Today there is neither sun, nor any of those pronouns 

I feel as alone as the time I may have felt

Conceived, growing unwilling, awaiting my destitution 

Only to be cast out, by sheer force

To face further rejection, like from my mother's womb