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Aarna Sharma Poem
He sits hunched in his room, regular twilights,
tries to erase the precarious voices telling him to leave,
“Leave, my boy. This world is cruel.”
So, he assents as there is no one to be bereaved.
Hitherto had he never felt the zephyr he does now,
it hovered over, flew and fondled as a Roehm.
And its strange touch all of a sudden,
to him felt more and more like home.
A prod, a poke, as he looks abstruse around the room,
there’s just him, the walls and the voice’s abet.
As pressure lingered on his skin unwilling to vacate,
By and by he turned around facing two silhouettes.
Faces smeared with black as the darkness engulfs,
Autumn saw him, empty at the fluster.
“Come, my boy, we’ll take you to the avenue.”
A, “Yes” was all he could muster.
The hands grazed and oh, was he shackled.
Shackled into the trap of the voices, where all fall.
He scuffles, brawls, fights as the bondages tighten.
Pitches deeper into darkness prepared to be mauled.
The silent whispers say, “On three.”
And they're tearing his wings, wrenching, snatching.
Swished away, were they ever so delicate.
Trepidation overcomes him, where he sits hurting.
Lights flicker and he sees traces of the shadows.
The sight jolts him back to reality.
As he watches his parents coquet with his wings.
“It’s just a phase. Get out of this mentality.”
And no, the silhouettes weren’t the voices.
They weren’t the ones that treat him like a toy.
They were the dissuading and the prejudiced.
when all he wanted to do was love a boy.
Copyright © Aarna Sharma | Year Posted 2023
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