for the absurdists

then early morning arrived, and
perched on platforms of mist, like a
train that took too long since night.
for those that had spaces to fill did
manage to pass the hours, while
people like i tasted vacancy that left
a sour breath of unkempt care. what
was left to do: study Spanish, soak
lessons of postwar history and the
nuance of dominant subjugation, the
narratives of slave culture that most
engage with in their theses, and yet
eternity seems to cramp in the damp
servitude of utter oblivion, as sharp

liquor smells. the intoxication of soft
meaninglessness out-pours through
closed curtain shades, while channels
of the death-in-life sing a graveyard
melody in response to its own feeble

Sneha Subramanian Kanta finds credence in non-linear forms of looking. Avant-garde art, untold stories and tales of refugees are matters close to her heart. Her work is forthcoming in Fallujah Magazine, EPIZOOTICS, Serendipity, Erstwhile Magazine and the first print anthology of Peacock Journal and elsewhere. She is a scholarship awardee, pursuing her second postgraduate degree in literature in the United Kingdom. Write to her: Read other articles by Sneha.