Blindingness

Sneha Mary Christall, II M.A. English

He emerged from his home,
Fully-formed and morose looking,
A newborn unwilling to experience
Anything besides the dark inner lining of his chrysalis.

 

It was with a certain disdain
That he regarded the world.
However, twisting out of his home,
He Realigned,
Readjusted
To this strange new form of existence.

 

In a few deliberate beats, he was out,
His wings, a pale, dusted blue.

 

He began the slow discovery of
His immediate surroundings,
Taking in the sounds of the farmyard
And the general din of a household
Slowly stirring awake.

 

He wasn’t one for frenzied exploration,
He watched me intently,
For the odd little organism that I was.
Flawed.
Wide- eyed.
A shade too silent.

 

His mute eyes conveyed discernment
As though he recognised me for who I was.

 

I felt exposed.
As though I had unwillingly let him in
On something inward.

 

It was perverse
How maddened I was.
I watched him,
As he flew past.
Crouching among shadows and sunbeams,
My hand, as though acting of its own accord,
Reached out and grasped him,
Crushed him to Finer than Dust.

 

I watched
As though from afar,
The shadow-play
Of his death,
Quick. Final.

 

Walking out
Into blindingness,
I longed to forget,
My vision blinded
By something beautiful and sad;
A child’s incurable curiosity-
And her capacity for evil.

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