An Epiphany Before the Death I

While he talked of Sartre, stains, and weather

He lowered his face in-between

To the cubic vase with a drooping flower

Near the antique ashtray- partly used

                                            Imbued

                                               Suffused with smells of ephemerons

                                                                          In rolls of smokes

                                                                          Coiling from his mouth

                                                                                              His breath thawing

                                                                                                  Resolving into the air.

                                                                                                                                          

It’s then that his grave ruminations turned flaxen

Like the hackneyed clad of a senile soul.

He abruptly sniggered at the whiled away seasons

With frail reasons to hold

                              Enfold

                              Refold the pages of Camus, Heidegger and others

                                                                   In labyrinths of thoughts  

                                                                      Besmirching his being

                                                                          Now discerning the implacable death

                                                                                      Roaming over his fretted eyes.