The Onion Peeler

She wakes up and face the thing called love

For which they sacrifice lives

For which the mortal is deified in mausoleums

For which the lyricist asks for music

She is no Picasso

Or some modern-day Keats

Her wonder is confined in the box  of conformity

She counts and recounts the minutes ahead

To make up a healthy lunch and a tiffin for the rest

She could have made the perfect cheerleader

For the team called home

As they turn in their sleep

Presuming the perfect bed-tea

It’s good that they’ve a room for her only

And she can wash her dream there

Thank God, He’s invented such stuff

Otherwise someone might catch her crying……………