Last Note Poem by Pankajam Kottarath

War is the boss at my shoulder
we being best friends
though not an impartial judge
who does not play any games
and sees nothing but the goal
being fascinated by reaping souls
sort of morbid harvest
wanting more and more
more and more, time and again
and I become weary, haunted,
feel sometimes sorry
especially for young victims
when I stare at them in the face
while screams scribble down their nerves
for the way of dealing with me
is frightening, unmerciful and horrific.


My voice may darken the atmosphere
when I approach to tell you
when and what you need to know about me
sometimes before you want to know it
with dark and brutal insights
or anything in between;
but your soul vacates seeing me
without waiting for a direct dialogue
and tell me what colour you see
when I approach you?