People flip through days
Like weeding out greying hair
Questioning, “How was your day?”
Expecting mild returns,
Full of decorum expected.
(something always pleasant, in line with tradition, always)
“A good day in the shade.”
“A day done good.”
“A cakewalk through the cool pavement.”
Never locking lips with the glare of the sun,
Never getting bruised.
Meanwhile wounds appear (for those who dare)
And ripen and rot infront of dead eyes (since some don't care)
And pleas die out and fleas gather.
Step out of the curb, and risk condemn,
And they may assail,
“Saunter, ponder, your life in vain.
Aimless loitering, spiralling down the drain!”
They spew out in rage.
They fear what they don't understand,
Preaching wise words and what not.
Smothering love with no care.
Moist and sticky like the monsoon snail, (smiles are guiles, everyday.)
So, let's put it this way:
Those who can’t comprehend, let them shun.
And fuck off in another direction.
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