A subtle pain adorns my forehead veins,
All endeavours have now deterred again,
To live through festivals, a smile abreast,
To not give in to knots across my chest,
A single festival without disdain,
Where moons alone are home to wax and wane.
To me the crackle of my sparkler speaks
Little reminders of my crackling knuckles
That, o’er the rising smoke, jitter and seek
To satiate every envy for my neighbours,
As ears are smashed and diyas alertly handled,
Fueled by the oozing oil of triple standards.
For five times twenty four, the city reeks
Of smoke and washable accounts of love,
That, far from what they’re aiming to achieve,
Strengthen what they are trying to disprove;
And ope the lips of contrast even wider;
Depleting love like camphor-eaten fibre.
And who, indeed, should hold we to repay
For vanishing the hugs that so prevailed,
Against a flurry of presents decayed
A meagre chord amid the serenade,
Of friendships watered down for trial and trade?
And whose, indeed, should door we knock upon;
For dearths of grins and hugs the coming morn
As distance is restored and wounds reborn,
As residues of bliss unswept adorn,
The floor against the door in sordid scorn?
So spread your arms and gleefully embrace,
The time to carve your face and then replace
The simple bursts of love from older days;
And never have we so audacious been,
In wearing masks, in donning pinker skin;
So why entitle them with different names,
When all are just designs of Halloween?