The Volatile Refuge to Womanhood was put to End
Where are those who challenged hunger for restoration of life,
those who kept their breath steady and low on the verge of unconsciousness;
those who’d declare the masses unjust for walking past their declaration of morale?
The one man conglomerate was birthed and run largely by a hysteric lunacy,
and sickness of the brain.
“Rid of those locks on your head,
become a man, start to think again!
Or we have other means to reach that end:
of barbarianism, shame, or the legal encroachments.”
Out went the warnings as soon as they came, which then returned as death threats.
Eventually, I would muster up to stand before myself,
and declare the infringement in thought I was about to make.
My thought was sacred, harboured by pure imbecile wonder—
I had to reconsider for quite a while to decide on a change.
It was first infringed by the influence of the great thinkers that preceded me,
then by my own self—by the method of neglecting the cluster that’d come to be.
But then I committed the act, it never lost the shine by which it was caressed,
even when tarnished by the biggest offence of all:
Of declaration of the philosopher rank all the while being a victim,
on the last ladder where the unassuming ones slip,
one that welcomes the stern light that seeps in
with complete indifference to the fall—the offense was of deceit,
of what I deemed to be just, and with complete certainty, I walked into the cage.
“How trivial it is to bother oneself with the critique of another’s corporeal content.
I commit to this change, solely to be left alone, in peace—
wait just one more day, the sun has already sunk.”
Then came the day, to subject one more dread, that of sentiment, to the flames.
My locks were shed, and so did a superficial layer of familiarity and aid:
I cast it upon me to ensure my well-being, and before long,
the sheath came to rest on my neck, and pinned me on a wall.
“I speak in full sobriety and conscious that this veil put on me
was not contingent on these physical locks that I shed.
By committing the arson of false-bigotry, and intellectual deceit,
I realise that this veil didn’t tug on my neck so as to make me hang to my fall,
it was my lover’s embrace, and the prowess of my imbecile, volatile thought.
Then the veil fell again, and wrapped me in warmth, strength,
and conscious that I continue to walk around engulfed in, routinely.”
The realisation too started to dawn,
the Year of the Amidst had passed; it had also been a victim of the fall.