I think about my pain and self-loathe,
the hurt’s authentic but the loathing’s
abominable like the shrieks of a spoiled
child who doesn’t get his way. Who said
life is fair? Who said we’re supposed to
think in black and white only? Who said
life is beautiful even? These are idealistic,
pseudo-adages like rag cloths serving as
The sun dims and the moon highlights
her dominance, but we carry on.
The dead lie and the parade speaks
once of them, a garish show of
affection before we carry on.
The pugilist is down, the crowd cries
when they see a winning streak broken,
but then they carry on.
And that’s pretty much your grounding,
your therapy or your prescription –
carrying on, come ebb or flow,
come beauty or dirt,
come raucousness or elegance.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)