“Varkala” played at your funeral
Recalling the death of your mind
No solace from the senses
Scorched colours left you blind

Each dawning day you dreaded
The sun a garish glare
Cars passing left you shattered
A heavy weight to bear

Past stations of the cross,
we found kinship in the void
Faithless runners of endurance
By the death drive deployed

With black hair like Morticia,

Your face a pallid ghost
Tending plants of poison
The reaper was your host

You fled the walls of psych wards
Mistreated by the nurses
A witch whose quiet prayers
Were mistaken for curses

The village where I met you
With rites in rustic gardens
Mandrakes round our necks
The forest gave us pardon

Now standing in the circle
I’m picturing your face
Your body gone, but you live on
Mnemosyne of grace