Gehraaiyan

What does it take

To go from blurry lines

to stygian blind

- a pinch of color

Of the wrong kind

A squeeze,

a hint

of looming chill

an undulating road

deceptively downhill

we move around

with masks on

facades of civility

quickly shorn

quick to crack

like crème brulee

to reveal the horrors

we keep at bay

the slope is slippery

the soul is mud

for cunning craftsmen

to mould with blood

to tattoo with needles

with poisonous tips

our dark fates

in hellish scripts

history has shown

many times over

tis true it’s true

and so what must

we do

fight today

the minor tweaks

the casual stripping

the harmless leaks

to snip and nip

this thing in the bud

this evil out there

but also in our own blood