Feelings have factive proclivities. Pain

in its hub is pitiless like happiness,

this flashes only in the former.

Syllabus of shame, wittingly subjects

itself on the wounded. Unable to brush

this off, the bruised are beguiled.

Blocked in silos stretchmarks bob up.

Hectors swagger on highways of hype

as the contused slouch, aftereffects

of shoehorning begin to show.

Sufferers must tidy themselves.

The mean streets have no messiahs.


Sanjeev Sethi