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.
