Koma

Cold evenings of winter delight, 

we huddle together around 

an old, rusty, tattered brazier; 

breathing wisps of heat and soot, 

listening to the fire crackle with life 

as it engulfs us in its hypnotic blaze. 

Slowly but surely the congregation grows. 

Shifting shawls and thick overcoats, 

looming shadows that brood like giants. 

Serried voices before plumes of smoke; 

how soon the roaring flames flicker out 

drenched with the usual gas and gossip. 

A tap and a shuffle groove in tandem.  

Waltzing through sightless whispers, 

a small figure creeps in through the din. 

Her feather-light gait brushes the snow, 

leaving trails of endless tunes and tales; 

left behind for generations to come. 

I glance upon the twilight muse. 

I trace its path upon the furrowed lines 

that sit so boldly on her wizened face. 

While the brightest star upon the horizon 

peaks through the corner of her eyes 

and greets us with cheery delight. 

A palpable silence engulfs the mood. 

We look at her with bated breath. 

The nocturnal stridulations lose their vigor. 

Time itself is aware, not to rush. 

For at this moment, she is the beginning; 

for at this hour, she is the end. 

Fueled by the strength of liquor and life, 

Koma! She lifts her monochrome voice 

and begins to weave a story for the night. 

A story so bold that could only be true, 

for the wind carries her credence 

and the stars align to confirm her faith. 

She weaves herself in the fabric 

of the ever-changing tapestry of time. 

Drifting in and out of waking dreams, 

clinging on to those fading nightmares. 

She struggles, at times, to elucidate. 

But there is no need to explain. 

Her countenance is measured, 

like ebbing tides over moonless nights. 

Receding back into depths of her memories, 

she drags us down to discern  

the enormity of her quivering breath; 

each filled with love, loss, regret; hope. 

As the cinders lay still in dying embers 

her voice crescendos to a pause. 

She gazes up in a rapturous wonder 

at those washed-out constellations. 

Poking and prickling; the fire’s out. 

She picks up her feet, her tales, and leaves. 

So, another night of winter awaits. 

Another gathering of familiar crowd. 

Another brazier lit; we’ll wait. 

For she is the beginning. 

For she is the end. 

Koma!