Morning

I walk briskly
At the sign of light,
As if it were the pistol of death
of the previous night.

I watch in wonder
as the neighbor's dog noses
its way through the grass of mynas,
and flapping coal wings
startle the stagnant air
with small beaded eyes fixated
on the unknown species
the dog's leash leads to.

Appointments rope in endless crowds
to places of money, sweat and tears.
And the fears of the morning rush
seems alleviated now
that people are practising courtesy (or some form of it)
in lines as if to offer prayers
to the accelerating box of people,
while watches flash in the light
reaffirming when their time is up.

I look around to see and experience
What a zombie apocalypse might be;
What with all these deadpan faces
and ironed shirt with no creases.
They march escalators of souls
trampled below
in the tragic foodchain
we all succumb to.

A hand weaves through
And untangles the horrid knotted earphones
Draping it on successfully--
On oneself like a huge bowtie
On a casket meant to go
In search for another life.

Three minutes of silence,
or more so,
as we mind our own business.
The rituals we do
that dismisses dawns
and its symbolic nature:
in our loss, it mourns.