interrogation room

heyya whoever's reading this.
its "Past Midnight"
shall share the poem by Boey Kim Cheng here...

Past Midnight

I turn the light on to see if i am still there
the bulb creeps to life, resentful
at being roused to work. The dreary repertoire
which a discordant band went through a dozen times
during a neighbour's funeral, is stomping
in my head. I hum a classical tune, summon
the words of a sentimental song
to expel the stubborn band. The blaring trumpets
cut them down with a single blow

Life is perpetual unrest
inthe housing estates. the endless knockings
the stampeding feet, the hurricanes of bad temper,
the eternal television, the thrashing bodies,
the endless rituals of life and death
where is the point of stillness
mature art directs us to?
my mind veers crazily.
i turn the light off.
the bulb goes on burning inside.

this poem gave me alot of images.
the reason im posting it up here...
is the coincidence of having a wake at the void deck
however, it is not producing much sounds,
could be due to my aircon, i do not know.
the of past midnight gives me alot of thoughts..

the interrogation room.
dark, cold and still.
with that shining lamp, the burning bulb in my head.
interrogating my very own thoughts.
questioning and questioning.
forcing every single cell to strip naked.
to be true, to be seen through...
the lamp shining, the bulb burning.
the night shunning, the darkness encircling..
so still on the outside, but the bulb burns,
sending the flames leapin' movin' within'
yet it remain still. on the outside..
so cold on the outside, but the bulb burns,
setting the soul on fire.
leavin' me in a pile.
pile of soot in the hood.
till its end, it remained in the hood.
hidden, and faceless.
thats how the night goes,
like the interrogation room.