The man who sat by me scribbled in his notepad:
‘Tragedy is a long distance runner
That we sprint away from.’
And I wondered if he was an omniprescient life form,
Camouflaged in an old man’s body –
Because I had just dashed into that bus
Pursued by the stench of my mediocrity;
And mediocrity is a type of tragedy,
A low-grade radioactive type whose isotopes
Are forever adhering to me,
And causing vast mutations in those parts of the body
That were declared ‘nuclear free zones‘, like my heart and my faith
And the courage I had.
One could have tried to sign a non-proliferation treaty
If there was an opposing party making the weapons,
But the only adversary is the familiar renegade staring back from the mirror.