Pagalkhaana

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At four am in the Pagalkhaana,
broken spirits soar through the air like extinct wild birds.
Rejoicing,
not in reincarnation,
but in second chances.
By dawn, the spirits dim,
and the eyes gloss over.
The jaws go slack,
and the mind numb
as the myopic janitor sweeps their bleached sun dried bones

into the incinerator,
along with every last hope we had,
In this godforsaken neon mausoleum.

In my hair I wear rotten feathers
to give my broken dreams flight.