The fan makes a creaking dull white circle on the damp ceiling painted green a decade ago, the broken springs of my bed poke me like reminders of a bad omen that lurks outside the walls, the past makes a contrasting composition with the scorching bleak days brewing a cyclone in a sweat drop that slither down my cheek only to disappear midway like a dream, the engine revving in my head.
The corred door hangs half open as if to hold me partly within, the wagon comes to a halt in my thoughts. Dead frames and pausing times, and a doubtful tread to aboard or be left behind, as the drumbeats and the rhythm jar my ears, (like a coward) I cover my head under the pillow.
Heat of the day wakes me with a soaked back (and three drooping blades that hang aimlessly above like a stranded nightmare) amongst crammed roads that lead to deserted spaces; I hang my conscience on the rusty nail on the wall and walk through the door packed in clothes and disappear into the streamed patterns;
(And wait) for the tide to push me back into the safety of my motionless room where each leaf of the fan works hard going round and round, only to remain where they were when green was painted on the ceiling.
A jammed switch in a humid summer night. But, will it fall on my head?