Tipping Tinkle 

The hemlock trickles down, 
Slowly collides with the amber booze. 
The surface within, dilates 
Just like your hazel pupil. 

And the tipping tinkle, 
Notes the fifth symphony. 
A nausea of flagrant flashes blanks, 
Then all is fumed with nothingness. 

The hair I gripped and the arm I bled, 
Cloning of my own double, 
The smacked lips of lavender hue, 
Drunk her own poison too.
 
Caved within shadows and flames, 
Of labyrinth of knowledge and of slumber, 
I too got burnt in the fire. 

Then a sudden drop of curtain, 
And the wall is now fallen. 
And the rest is the burning Sun. 

Bio Note: 

Sayani Mukherjee is a budding writer and an ardent lover of literature hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. Currently, she is pursuing her Master's in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Recently her writing has been published in the literary magazine of her current alma mate and various international and national magazines and journals. In her free time she likes to engage herself in the world of cinema, art and cooking.