TENNYSON AT 10: SANJANA HATTOTUWA

A Promethean glow illumines,
A faint reflection, emaciated and pale,
Projected on a silicon slice, its nothingness foregrounding
Cement cakes hiding grey synapses,
Huddled in their pigeon holes.
The numbered pages measure
Progress of a rumbling hunger.
A Perahera of memories flits across
Yearning for rest from
Dissecting hands of
An impassioned face.

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