Itching
My son is always on the wings of hurricane
though he breathes as a gentle breeze
No doubt,one day his father may be uprooted
Like a juggler he plays, not with balls,
but with dates and figures.
Dad tell me about this pact
Dad tell me about that treaty
Dad who were on the other side
Dad who were they
But his father keeps mum always
Why should one slip over the moss
Silence is the panacea to switch off his libido
That night was not unusual
His questions paraded before a drooped head
Reeling in the whirls of intoxication
I dissolved my self in a peg of vodka
Locked the dungeons of past, present and future
Sprouted in his mother's veins
I melted her with kisses
But somewhere in the darkness
I could hear wriggling, groaning
Paws groping,jaws widening
I could feel a medal swelling on my chest
Blood is crying,sweat is gasping
My friend, let me be frank
That night,from head to heel
itching snailed over me.Still scratching
An unhealed wound is burning as an ember.
Copyright © Syam Madappattu | Year Posted 2014
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