• shreyah 11w

    Meticulous people chant no magical hymns.
    Is it a non-ideal art to sprint with no limbs?



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    ~ D I V E R G E N C E

    I bloomed in the eighth
    month–tiny, tiddly and
    trammelled by kismet,
    failing my race to fit in
    the 'ideal' slot, right at
    the beginning of my trek.
    Albeit my arrival was not
    ideal, I had to be special.

    Growing up has surely been
    hauntingly beautiful–a tinge
    of nightmare, I experienced
    in broad daylight, sequence
    of distortions in the mirror–
    reflections that took time and
    tears for me and a paradigm
    shift for others to embrace.

    I have survived glacial gaze,
    ostracism, imperious sneer
    and a rear view of heavenly
    pilgrimage for I missed my
    limbs in the womb of my
    goddess while trying to ace
    the race that merely holds
    no treasure, no pleasure but
    an ugly core and uglier ethics.

    I adjusted with the world
    which failed to adjust with
    me for I had to master the
    art exclusively made for
    me—an accepted normal
    bereft of normalcy, curiously
    cooling my heels to decrypt–
    "how idealism justifies abilities?"

    ©shreyah || 22-09-21