At five,

you are an obedient kid,

who would mix exactly 2 spoons of protein

to his already warm milk

and not find himself stuck

between 1 and 3 as he thinks

this chosen concentration would 

empower some superman strength 

to fight bullies at school.


At twenty-five,

you are at ease,

sitting against a broken chair,

a metaphor

rhyming with your dreams,

wanting to put an end to what seems 

an infinite loop of failures;

a lost cause

on a stranded island with a seine net,

craving for the salmons of success.

And you decide to put on an attire

dipped in good luck’s charm.

Pushed the unconfident clouds

to capitalize on an itchy palm.

At forty-five,

having witnessed many springs and autumns;

encountered magpies and horseshoes,

you are starting to believe

the vows of lies

around the broken mirrors,

but still, refrain yourself

from avoiding the multiples of seven.

You think about left not being the

right foot forward,

and get away with it easily

only to get paralyzed at your desk.


At sixty-five,

you are carrying a rucksack of experiences,

a proven wanderer of fate’s

most exciting adventure.

In your possible twilight years,

tried to bury 

the thoughts of having jinxed

a neat spell of purple patch,

when you see your son

holding old shin pads

as four leaf clovers,

you know 

they’ll guide him home

as they once guided you

and you were just awkwardly fine.

Written by: Ayush Arya


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