• reflections__ 24w

    Traitor to times

    On days when mother
    chases me away, saying
    I couldn't be her child,
    there's a sadness in her voice
    but her eyes speak Hungarian,
    a language I can't speak
    but her gaze does;
    And I smoothly leave,
    before she tugs at
    my insecurities to
    crumble me back into her
    domicile lands.

    When father breaks
    into an uncalled fight,
    he looks like the homeless
    old man chasing doves
    at street no. 11.
    I watch from the terrace,
    eyes peeking between two folds
    of my favourite blanket;
    Mother asks if I never feel hot,
    I do but this cold never wears down
    despite the sweat dribbling off
    my echogenic chest,
    I struggle against
    the pull of her hands
    that are stronger than mine,
    But she never used them right
    unlike mine that waged
    atleast all wars I could
    for myself.

    I hear them cry,
    scarecrows in the battlefield,
    erect with barrel chests that once
    smelled of adulterated manhood.
    Now they hold but stories
    of untainted childhoods
    on the verge of collapse,
    Mother still says, demons exist
    around the corner of 9th lane,
    where a man roped himself up
    from a baggage of stolen favours.
    Now he rules over minds
    of three year olds
    and haunts grandmother tales;
    While his hut serves as shelter
    for homeless youths,
    with once burgeoning flames in eyes;
    Now they wait for adults
    with pregnant pockets and
    tainted personas, to help them
    rope themselves, either from
    their scalloped benevolence
    or from a timeless defeat.

    ©reflections__