It is rather strange, how our lives begin
All crying, exposed, and unfurrowed skin.
There are many perhaps who should have known
Better. But brains were just as unfurrowed.
I was young then. Clutching my pen, penning
With great effort, emotions far too big
For that one muscle in my chest. Crying.
And in your eyes, I saw the reflection
Of the coward that disappointed both,
You and I. And I swore, I won't forget.
Or forgive. Yet time is a fickle thing.
My horns grew longer, my skin grew redder.
All the while, the cambion denied fault
For having tossed my soul in the shredder.
But I believed I could escape one day,
Or maybe I would understand someday.
The whys, and the whys, and the whys again
Why device wrinkles on unfurrowed skin?
And run away I did, once there's a way,
Unclenched the muscle, the first time that day.
Fleeing the burning pyre, I took a breath.
Infront of me, I saw that crying kid.
So, I raised him the way I wish I was,
I brought to him the kindness I had craved,
The empathy that been so elusive.
Pleasant. Though regret about the past plagued.
Not realizing that I had transformed into
the closure that I lost, when I learnt about the
tragedy of all of us. Oh! I lost it when
I learnt about the tragedy of all of us.
Glancing at the mirror, I saw someone better.
No more Stygian horns, no nightly silent sobs.
My soul became a hammer, and it split the world
asunder. And once more, I was a boy. Again.
