There’s always a story
Going around, like a chameleon,
Slowly, floating in the wind, taking
On new perspectives as there are
Many ways to die.
The birth of this story
Began along a narrow lane,
Where green blades could
Repeatedly strike the boots
Of a speeding biker.
The sun was beginning
To grow timid, its rays
Peeked through the hairs
Of the corn fields, yellow,
Orange, maroon, red in fact.
She always thought
Going on a picnic by the backwater
After six was a scary idea.
As if the flaps of a flag in the wind,
She could hear cold winds boiling
And the engine’s piston banging,
The incessant sparks of the plugs
Like thunder and lightning bolting,
Shooting her heart and thoughts
Up like fireworks on Christmas Eve.
Soon the bridge came to them,
Like a substitute for the sun,
Darkness blooming, creatures
Looming, grooving to the moon’s wake.
Things whisper in these paths.
This story has caused
Many a fuss, amongst market
Women, who argued with husky voices,
About how a rich man’s son had taken
A poor girl for ritual;
‘Blood money’ they reckoned.
Investigating, digging buried
Issues and feeding them fat
Until on a night like that which
They spoke of, this story bore another.
For it could take one finger
To create a problem, but
A multitude to solve.
How grotesque is the real story?
Oh bloody jackals! There’s always a story.