Inviting death

The mat that held me was held up in the air by 4 people. It was gliding through a narrow street which sloped down towards Ganga. When we reached the ghats they kept the mat down on the veranda of a small building. I remembered this place. Not long before i had come here with my friends. We were staring at the dead bodies, some burning and some waiting to be burned. A person who called himself the keeper of the eternal fire had shown us that fire. While my friend was trying to sneak a picture of the ghat which was a camera free zone i was eying the narrow, cozy lane that goes back to the town. Piles of dry wood were stacked everywhere. There was a corpse at the exact same place that i was lying now.

Will writing about death invite it? Was thinking about this little thing i wrote sometime last year, when I had a brush with death in December.

Falling Down

The wind does not whip my face,
As I fall away from grace.
It really is no fall at all.

A slow elevator does descend,
Stopping at each apartment,
Taking more spectators along.

Some they watch with interests vested,
others, distracted, tweeted. Jested.
Like the crowds at the previews of Fall.

This is Falling. Falling down.
Each new day you break low ground.
Sinking into black abyss.

While you patiently wait, do remember to cooperate.
The bottom is far as you move along, sedate.
This is not an exit.

When it's over, it will be a mess.
Excused, perhaps, by drunkenness.
Though escape will still elude.