Prism

I wrote this last week,when I had read of Radhika Tanwar's murder.The irony lies in the fact that a girl/woman was killed on the day when the world over the day was declared Womens' Day.For every complying every time,for stepping back,for becoming a woman one who is inferior from man,this is a poem for you.

Across the room

the tattered glass confesses,

the blasphemies curtailed.

under the shelter of a wound

it seeks refuge

struggling to cease the smile.

it lasts a moment

and benumbs the soul,

it lasts an eternity

and benumbs the dead.

it aspired for aspirations

that die within the day,

answers left to question the

melancholies of today.

the tattered glass

has a story to yield,

a story to confess,

Alas!the spirit dies; extinguishes

with the plea of hope.

with dread looming large

all that remains is flesh that is exploited,

all that remains is a story that unfolds,

all that remains is a tattered glass

and its dying prism.