his grace

The spectacle of unseemly fuchsia gowns
obversely thawing in soft pastel towns
And that scraggly-beard looking for sex
Who tagged me in his post to vex,
slaving to put a hex
While I am having my nose in books
And give it a dirty look
Placidly putting my feet up
Filling my idyllic cup
These all are gods in human form
Who weather myriads of scalding storms
Denying our magnificent humanness
We scramble up to churches and chapels to confess
The bench farthest from the altar
Kitschy profiles in pubs and bars
Sometimes we lose those fine threads
And deal in ebony unseen dread
But I have walked in his benevolence and grace
Through nameless companions, I could never trace

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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