They told me that the ultimate arrow That would pierce its way Into my mundane heart,would be The death of a loved one, But as time flipped its own pages, I embraced the realisation that Losing loved ones is not as painful as Intentionally letting them slip Through your hand like grains of sand That merrily mingle with the rest- But no,the girl next door said that She saw warm blood flow from the throat And along the flaky skin of her Abusive father,whom she despised With all her soul and that was when Her heart felt lacerated, But then the old lady at the bus stop said That when her step mother, A lady of fine taste, Burned her hand with a piece of coal, She heard her heart shatter, With a slight tinkling noise, As if it was made of glass. Bafflement took over me, And I sat on the couch, Pondering about the‘ultimate arrow’ They warned me about, Wondering how the Arrow could have multiple forms, And then, I found what I was searching for- The Arrow, Is not just a single sardonic notion,but A quiver full of sorrows And grievances, that shot People’s hearts, one by one.