The fire cackles and laughs mischievously,
invites me to her realm
and spurts smoke of desires unknown
and mother, I need to take the plunge.
It is burning hell and heaven together outside
but my insides are frostbitten.
They don’t feel her touch anymore.
They don’t listen to my voice anymore.
They don’t answer to your prayers anymore.
They are just brittle,
waiting to disintegrate
with the slightest touch of the fire.
Why, mother, the fire seems to be the
answer you or me or anyone couldn’t give.
My imagination is metamorphosing into
a hallucination that doesn’t look pretty.
And I metamorphose back into a cocoon when
everyone around me is becoming butterflies
of millions of colors and zillion patterns.
Why, mother, everyone has wings now
when I still crawl sluggishly with those
thousand piercing legs.
Mother, I’d like one nap in your lap.
For once, I want you to put your hands in
my hair and say dark circles are beautiful.
For once, tell me it’s okay
to be alive for no reason.
Tell me that finding a big purpose is just a fad.
Tell me that cocoons have significant if not equal
part of nature’s game and tell me it’s okay
to live for the sake of failing;
to love for the sake of healing;
to be for the sake of being.
Maybe there, mother, for once, the frost
inside me will loosen up a bit.
Maybe, for once, the ice will melt and
labyrinth will open itself for a bunch of photons.
Maybe, for once, I’ll let you see me
cry and smile together.
Maybe, for once, I will not depend upon
metamorphosis to look beautiful,
inside and outside.
And maybe, just maybe, for once,
I’ll be able to extinguish some fire
with all that melting ice.