Unborn and uncovered by the layer of derma,
In a bag and surrounded by the plasma,
Under the aegis of progenitor’s bona,
The worldly glitter and clamor was an anathema.
Juvenile, in the world full of spectra,
Mirthful, inquisitive, and avid I was gonna
Living life, no full stop, no comma,
Calignosity was the biggest anathema
Ripened, in the society full of dogma,
Jousting fiercely to find penuma,
Éclat was what we were yearning to be wanna,
Oblivion was an enormous anathema.
Impending towards greys, now a middle-aged fella,
Fortuitous but still working on my villa,
Wanted to ace the parental diploma,
Withering in vain was tremendous anathema.
Moribund, fading and counting my Karma,
Lacking vigor, docket or any agenda,
Sentient, aware, conscious, and alive; Viola!
Having anathema is my solitary anathema..
This poem is about, despite being content with their state; how people have different anathemas at different stages of their lives, starting from the unborn stage to the stage when they are counting their last breaths. And most interestingly, none of these anathemas are real. In the next stage or in the coming stages, people overcome them.
Say for example, when we were a fetus, and we were enjoying the warmth of the mother’s womb; the only anathema was the light and sound of the world. In the next stage (as a child), the person, rather starts enjoying the spectrum of light. What attracts a child the most, is nothing but the bright colors.