There’s a miniature volcano
on his back
with mortifying eruption.
‘Beauty is
in mind’, his mom intones.
But nobody
recognizes. His classmates
‘honor’ him
with some funny sobriquets.
It resembles a cactus. He can’t
eschew its
thorns. He withdraws. Solitude
is a shelter.
It’s like a gas-producing
cassava; his
mind bloats with thoughts
of inferiority.
Whistles and whoops from
the playground
pain him no more. Recurrence
blunts sorrow’s talon.
He falls down through
a siesta.
Posthumous pity is a wreath.
First published in The Literary Hatchet.
Sun, 2021-11-28 14:21
#1
Mohamed Sarfan
Dear Poeter, This poem is going to leave my mind realizing the realities of life. The mind of a man who is relentlessly pursuing the path of unstable life, the quest for travels, lives in dreams without even sleeping in the dark. Although the habitats are different as human beings, the reality is the same from the beginning of the volcano to the ordinary streets. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations