It’s Not The Correct Time.
I’ve always waited,
For the correct time.
Until one hasty morning,
It was too late.
“Sorry!”, they said, “two hours or more”.
His brown eyes dilated,
Slouching over the whitewashed wall,
of the iodine smelling corridor.
He kept his fears at bay.
While she tried breathing manually,
For her lungs ached each time,
seeing her mother lifeless.
I was still awake,
with half-closed lids.
Trying to figure,
Was it really the correct time?
I wanted to scream,
But my vocal energy sabotaged by unknown.
The meek sound waves didn’t make
To their expecting ears.
I faded one more time.
Because it wasn’t the correct time.
While Malak-Ul-Mawt stared into my soul,
smiling faintly.
Though not as scary, I deliberately ignored.
While I again reminded, not the correct time to go.
They checked on me each morning, each hour.
Though punctured in heart and vagina,
The pain felt like tuft of plump cloud.
As reviving back has duality like human brain,
Either survive or fall,
I chose the former,
Because as always, It was not the correct time.
