Treasure Island

Nikhil Parekh

(27/08/1977 / Dehradun, India)

beds


When I tried sleeping on a king sized bed of pure
gold,
engulfed my persona in quilts embossed with biscuits
of exquisite silver,
I took extreme caution while tossing and turning,
my body vehemently refrained to sleep all night,
so as to preserve crisp creases in the rich bricks of
dazzling yellow.

When I attempted sleeping on luxury beds embodied in
ornate satin,
a mattress of wild musk grass firmly riveted to its
face,
with ravishing cologne sprinkled bountifully all over,
and slippery floss tickling numerous zones of my
silhouette,
the royal environment of sponge evaporated
indispensable traces of sleep.

When I ventured sleeping on colossal beds of pearl
soap tablets,
with minute scriptures articulately scribbled all
over,
and the fragrance of sea oyster emanating wildly from
all quarters,
my body felt fidgety, satisfying itself with
abstemious amounts of
sleep.

When I dared sleeping on plush beds of dotted panther
skin,
the softness in flesh texture sinking me down,
ghastly premonitions of the live beast flooded my
mind,
I awakened with panic stricken jolts in middle of the
night.

I then made resolute resolves to sleep on bed carpets
of solitary road,
with the creamy moon impregnating me with beams of
tranquil calm,
mundane noises of vehicular traffic sporadically
flooding my ear,
the tepid breeze my passionate companion,
and the pitch dark blackness my quilt for the night,
I instantaneously fell asleep with dreariness of the
previous nights now
converted to loud snores. 

Submitted: Sunday, August 17, 2014

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