The Armpit Syndrome

There is life getting dampened each second
in those armpits,
They reek of the past and the present that’s forgotten.
They help smelling a future, that’s evident.
The best one can do is trim them
out of thoughts
for a different timeline

where lands desire grasses of concrete,
clean rivers like getting hijacked, pipe-choked, bottle trapped
leaving their own open dwellings in darkness,
skies prefer getting trolled for their capability of being bright
and not for their crimes
which include hooliganism, thefts and a few destructions.

In a land of the honest,
where hypocrisy humbly agrees being the most honest;
where pubes are a shame, flowing hair is beauty
Vagina is prohibited, vagina is rose.
A land where red is a sympathy, red is a shame,
red is beautiful, red is a game.

I call this mere mystery alongwith its kid mysteries, doom.
The earth was and will always be the product of doom, always unaware of its doom.
A doom where one runs after mysteries, honestly present,
owing no credit to the ‘ungrateful’ us
who take all applauds of discovering.
We unreveal scars and do chest thumpings.

We, the barbarians of our own armpits,
what do we take so much pride in?
Our bodies?
I always hope, this skin land full of dead marshes,
forlorn plateaus, evaporated valleys, deserted dunes, empty lakes, fumous pits
calls itself beautiful as anything that lives prefers to remain ignorant.
It has the confidence of liberty
But that which survives always praises itself.
It is ignorant.

We neglect our greenery and praise our ugliness
How undiscovered are we.

We are already destroyed
but somehow we succeed completing it.
In today’s world, complete destruction has a name – Living.

Here, trim it off.
Destroying destructions to their liking
is death, much before
it begins.

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