Head

Head

“Green”, he said vague and despondent,
“Green it has always been and must always remain.”

I tried to reason with him, but my attempt at lucidity failed.
It was all too clear in his head, his small trumpet like head.

I hated that head. I always had.

Then it came to me, flashing intently on my brain,
Like some small elevator in my cells had suddenly turned on,
And moved upward.

“If it was always green, how do you know what green is?”
“Do you have something to compare it against, something you know is green?”

He was stunned. His small trumpet like head moved slowly, bewildered.
“Regicide and suicide”, he shouted.

Then he killed himself by turning into a small turnip.

I hated that head. I always had.


-Mayank Daswani.