The God of small things

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I live a life of melancholy

Stuck in silences of muted voices

Listening to loud metal explosives,

And keeping beats to the polluted music.

There's developed thick skin,

With bruises of poured acid

And dry wounds like ugly scars

That pigment new unaesthetic colours on my skin.

But still there are days,

When everything is a personal attack,

And the tip of a long sword

Grows from my navel

Up all the way to my tongue and red raging eyes.

On those days,

I pray to the God of small things,

To bring innocence and forgetfulness,

To shimmer my eyes with drops of purity and curiousity.

And I swear to the God of small things,

That I'll be one of them- Her small things.

But late did I realise that

Small things are a piece of art

In a rare museum visited,

In this life of melancholy.

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@theinkedword

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