"Good morning."

A trembling, subtle

sliver of butter,

half doused in

yawns,

reeling in slumber,

As adown the humble

Bus stops, pavements and

lawns,

Waning, paining in the daily struggle-

They walk.

The airs ring with

Cracking knuckles,

Mornings, greetings-

pearls in the rubble.

The smiles that they stutter

Are daggers in disguise

The mornings they mutter

Are lost to the skies.

They harbour hatred toward the other,

Partaking in the blissful vice

They all use their sweatshirts as cover

For the monsters

lurking inside.

It's a parade of formalities,

Of paper-crisp vainities,

A pantheon of forgotten spite

And twisted abnormalities.

A sham, a joke, a parody;

A wet, weeping comedy,

A plague that rots you inside out

Manifested by pests that harrow me.

One by one.

Yawn by yawn.

Greeting by greeting.

Morning.

A word laced with mockery

Poison rolled in jaggery,

A demented punishment of which

Everyone is a nominee.

Is that why it appeals to me?

Why does it feel how it feels to me?

Let me slip on my mackinee

And take my dog for a jog with me.

For this show of disharmony

Stirs up the poet, the bard in me,

And I, in misery, delight

In penning the sweetest ironies.