Battered, beaten and bruised.
Beneath a baggage of a thick skin,
under the closet of rotten flesh
lies the carcass of a lost soul in this lost city.
From the jostling crowd, trying to find a footing in the local train,
to the slippery floors of the busy corridors of the corporate park.
Seems like a race,
a race among the carcasses to reach the top.
A race to be lonely or a race which leaves you lonely.
The city never sleeps, neither does it let the carcasses sleep.
For, its hard to sleep with your eyes open
Hard to dream with unfulfilled dreams in your eyes.
The clock ticks, the time bomb about to explode.
The race still on,
The winner still a mystery.
Carcasses all around, not a soul.
All carcasses of a lost soul,
A thinking machine of flesh and bone,
Just like the ‘think - pad’ you see in the ads.
Lost and delirious I stand,
Just like the carcasses, I see - Without the soul.
On ‘them’, I comment
‘Them’, I criticise,
‘Them’, confuses me.
But sooner than later I realise,
I am also running the race,
with no purpose or aim.
for me also, its hard to sleep,
as the eyes just don’t close.
I am also one of them.
I am a carcass without a Soul.
Faisal Ahmed Ikram
