Here, men bore infants—  
Banners across the poles.  
A crown he deserves.
The lady must bow!

She works 9 to 5,  
As he stays at home.  
Nine months of scrutiny—  
Bless him! How did he hold?

Give him some space,  
Hold the king high!  
Oh, the cramps he must face—  
Could she ever now?

Give her a veil, for she must cover.  
Oh! He looks after the kids—  
God’s descendant! A throne we must give.

Let him cry, for he feels pain,  
But the lady must not.  
How thick her skull must be!

Give him some space,  
Let her take care of the kids.  
Sick he must be—  
Of all the chores he did!

Ahoy, Utopia!  
Roles reversed,  
Here everything would change—  
For nothing, or for the worse.

Words, perhaps—emotions mirrored,
More than letters, they are—reminds the lover.
As the 5, 4, 3 takes over their vows,
Flaunting its beauty,
They embrace one another.

Beauty she is—perhaps a swan,
Gentle he is—perhaps the lake.
A perfect picture they draw together,
As they ring one another—at 5.

A duel now sparks with fury,
Hearts quickly turn to ashes.
None ready to accept their mistake,
“Sorry” hides behind their fate,
While the red thread turns vague.

"Nothing lasts forever," says the bard,
As Romeo and Juliet turn into tale.
The 5 and 4 meet their end—
A mere word, says the very same mate.

“Lover’s quarrel,” says the blonde.
“It’s the ring!” says the brunette.
“Did love ever win the race?”
Questions the bird,
As it fails to accept their fate.

Forgetful they are of their 5, 4, 3s,
The following numbers turning pale.
Now, tell your goodbyes to the poem.
'Cause you see, my love—
Love’s sour, sorry’s burnt, and bye’s bitter.

I shall go; now, you decide—
Whether you will say your 5, 4, 3s,
Or let the past collide.

She ponders as she lies on the bed of roses,
The thorns biting through her skin,
Pellucid elsewhere, but the stem,
Surrounding her, engulfing memory.
How did she get there? She does not know,
For this is all she feared.

The bear on her chest leaves her to wonder:
the caged giant now takes pity,
Afraid it is of the petite beings,
And afraid it is of the fiery flash it brings.
Distorted creatures, partly seen through the iron rings.

Does the beast ever pray to be elsewhere?
She ponders as the trembling devours her.
The puny-beast is now the prey,
Behind the iron, it is caged.
What is the difference, she wonders, as one twins with the other.
At this breath she figures out the answer that wages war against eachother.

Both the maiden and the beast would choose the bear.
The irony of it—now she is aware.
Rules of mankind she is reminded of:
If a bear scares you, contain it.
If she swirls your lust, cover it.
Yet you cannot sustain—act on it.

As the cotton turns scarlet,
The world now turns aware.
But it’s not the bear she fears.
It is the cold-eyes that judges.
As they still question the lass—
That lies motionless as the wounds tear.

"The bruin earned it!" accuses the chap.
"It is cause of what she wears."
She ponders as the coldness embraces,
She lies as she sheds ruby crystals,
Eyes turning hazy, feeling dazed,
Losing feelings elsewhere,
The only thing shading this pain
is the sorrow-night’s weep ablaze.
As she reaches the gate that awaits.

As two ends near-
Them and you,
These biased questions may ascend:
How old were they? What did she wear?
How did they look like? Was she rare?
But dare a man ask another,
Why did you do this?
Was it ever fair?