Debt

There, beyond the days of yore
Lies an urn, of plastered mud
Smoking.
I hold my hands away
Reaching down
To feel the heat.
Plunging into pain has never been hard
For,the crippling childhood scar
Shielding from any molten hurt-
They spread all over
Fuming acidulous blisters.

And then as the cyanotic blues
Strangle me to breathlessness
I peep into the urn,
And I see a reflection of hope-
And I gasp, and choke.
Tart odorous fumes annihilate
The venom of its own kind,
And I resurface,
Swallowing a mouthful
Of air.

Living is often a debt-
Either to life, or to death.