Death On The Door Poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay

The room reeks of medicine,
Crumpled, dirty, dark, unclean
A burden is lying on the bed
Once youthful and now almost dead!
The ritual of attending on him
Is an aberration of life's rhythm
Except letting the time go by
Waiting for the man to die!
His relations he so cared for
Now find him the one to abhor
His time is out, why he still goes on?
Wonders the people he thought his own!
Still alive he's sinking in bed
Just an alien as good as dead
They're counting time, the ones his own
When death is on door, everyone is alone!