After the book was read,
the last page turned,
well defined voices quietened
in yellowed twilight.
The lamp’s shade turned solid,
“Pull me”, said the off cord
unnoticed earlier.
The last minor characterization
tiptoed downstairs
and got himself a safe drink,
he was parched,
emotionally run-through.
I noticed the day tease
aside my curtain,
hands sweaty,
mind numb with word anaesthetic.
The weekend chapter
resigned,
slipped a foot out
of this unmade bed.
Glancing towards the book,
it was now some thirty pages back.
The main selfish character Hamlet
had turned to Act IV,
he made at last a decision,
he didn’t want to go.
Wish the author was here
to sort out his notable creations.
