This was the kind of pain
That could turn blood lines to blurred scribblings,
And admiration, to disdain.
It could turn the flames of love, into frosty feelings
It could make you drenched
With heavy downpours of scorn,
Like a person, devoid of a shed;
Vulnerable to the merciless rainstorm
She never expected that, a bag full of agony
Would be the price for euphoria.
But the foreseen joy was more than any kind of fee
Life would require of her
Her weary body
Was about to cross the finish line
That had witnessed the downfall of so many
Who got hurt, on a race track that was meant to be benign
Her pain-induced euphoria
Was heralded by cries of hurt;
Not from her,
But from a new cohort.
The vapid designs and homely decoration
Were the legacies left by the surgeon.-Esther Ajari