Yet we are all the same

My heart was carefully carved into the shape of a prisoner
Protected by the ribs.
It will not be easily broken as fast as a twig
It took a whole of 9 months to be made
My mother who waited and suffered all the pain
And my dad who used to eagerly wait
My dad
My dad was always the one in touch with the truth of the sphere
He was always the one in for any debate.

He knows
That I might not return back home safe
He knows that those shadows will come in my way
yet He didn’t impede his little writer aficionado
he used to love to cut open my avocados
I derived glee from its succulence
And from his pride that even he can help in the kitchen
He was usually in the middle of an intense love story with the oven mitten’s
he was well aware that it wasn’t my mothers destiny to deal with the food
He knew it was just a disgusting tradition.

At my home
I know it’s pretty different.
Not everyone is a victim of these belligerent and hostile traditions .
The normal orthodox systematic roles
Are actually completely reversed in my home.
The gnomes in my garden are also aligned the same as my neighbours.
They have their same blank faces with bead, glimmering eyes
Shining under the moon light
as the night careens slowly towards the day
Engulfing the bright sunlight
Even then
The roles remain the same.
And yet I admit
We are all sane.

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