Prisoner of Rehabilitation...

His navel bruises weren't hurting much,
the scalp and his limbs neither...
His ulcers were all healed,
and the swollen up face was,
getting back to normal...
The purple tinge was fading,
colour coming back to the injured skin...

Mended - those broken down shacks,
rebuilt - all the devastated villages...
All plundered rucksacks - now refilled...

No more epidemic,
no more war,
all bullets drained of the fire,
and all fire of its flame...

Air was still again, and birds were again heard after ages...
And amidst all this,still
in the resurrected society,
in this community of healed individuals,
still there hung an air - scarred...

Scarred where no physical symptoms showed...
Scarred where no reason was left untold...
To that place where it survived, we gave the name heart,
and it still lingers, no matter how time had mitigated,
and still in that place, where it was fed with hurt and loss,
outlived all the medicines and herbs, the scar of hatred...

And out there, lingered the shadow,
which never healed, ready to strike,
at a moment's call...
Somewhere it has remained, untold...

Necessarily needed to heal,
more than the purple bruises on face,
it needed to heal... But still lingered on...

And all that I can do is wonder,
has it healed yet?
Or are we brewing another storm...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju