Black walls with fading skins peeled off till the faded
Silver lightings crawling out of their own anger
inbetween shrill howlings.
The feet with a wide staring
measures the mystery;
gets coiled by her own hair.
The freezed, numbed retinas
being so for two reasons – immense love and immense hate.
Bloody limbs coiling with each cry of a song, struggling to be undone.
Cracks of lightning-
and the flooded face emptied;
smiles erupting with streams freshly dried
The feet play in red.
The screams reflected as ‘Take me’
echoed eternally as one.
The four-footed crawls, runs, flies to the cradle,
looks at its own face and wonders perhaps, for the last time,
why good and evil have a common origin
and as they do, why isn’t evil called beautiful as it too exists, shares a space, has its own motives, kills to grow,
divides and loves getting divided.
What if the good injected
for centuries and ages isn’t good in its truest term?
The scarred face, innocent for the one last time
as the limbs suddenly turn human
into two loving hands
that had once happily cuddled a division,
now ripping off Barbie just for fun.
‘Look how they sleep so peacefully
on the roses’,
the mother laughs…
exhausting her gun.
Would she give even the slightest damn, if she is now idolised?
She will love no less, but will be forced to believe she has sinned,
she has lost.
She now has guns around her
She must believe they exist as hers, praise their designs, call them beautiful before she dies.
She never killed. That face of hers never did.
They did honestly what we do indirectly;
Kill everyone for our own at the onset
and then further categorise as good and evil
based on whom to torture less as love.
The four-footed creature in each of us longing to be called beautiful;
we long to be so.