A Poem by Shayeri Dasgupta

 

The Last Truth

Every face I meet is a counterfeit—
skin stretched tight over vacancy,
eyes like broken lanterns
flickering with no fire inside.
You unstitched the fabric of the world,
emptied it of blood,
and left me wandering
through cathedrals of ash.

Now all that remains are mannequins—
breathing like graveyard winds,
walking like funeral processions,
mouthing syllables that fall
like teeth from a corpse.
Their laughter is the rattle of chains
dragged across abandoned altars.

I starve for your singular truth.
The memory of you is famine and fire,
a cathedral set ablaze,
a bell that tolls for no one.
Without you, even the sky rots—
the sun a hollow blister,
the moon a pale and bloodless coin.

I drink silence thick as tar,
I eat shadows that splinter my tongue,
but nothing feeds me.
You were the last pulse,
the final spark,
the only heart that beat.

Now the world decays in counterfeit flesh,
and I walk alone
through its apocalyptic theater,
clutching the hunger
for the ghost of your truth.