The Last Commute

On reaching the edge, he took off his shirt
It fluttered into the air like a torn parachute
The moist winter wind embraced his fresh wounds
As the rocks watched him make the last commute.

His slender rib cage waivered in the wind
All gore in his sinews froze.
He gazed down the edge of the gigantic cliff
As the black waves at it’s feet arose.

It was a chilly night, morbid and suspecting
The violet sun was setting amongst the last flight of aves
The ferocious sea was roaring in mocking pride
As he prepared for his last submission to the waves.

The tender pink soles of his pale feet
Felt the ruggedness of the rock beneath.
Yet he stood, glaring at the cosmos
For fear wasn’t a legacy he bequeathed.

Ears frozen white, nose apple-red
His windy hair barely clung to his mane
For the final time he gazed at the growling black waves
And closed his eyes in pain.
—————————
5 July 2007, Nitin Varma.