There is a place where they are sent
Those who will not but spurn the different.
There is a god who loves to descend
On those who abhor the variant.
Look at me.
LOOK! She says.
LOOK into my eyes.
And see for yourself
The kind of statue you could become.
Pallid, squalid, or rotten?
Or merely overgrown and forgotten.
Look into my eyes
For they draw your insides out
And show you what you are about.
If yet you cannot see
Beauty beyond your own (outer) beauty
You will learn that you are trapped within you,
And know, you have turned to stone.
Forgotten and overgrown,
Garnishing my garden forevermore.
(Dedicated to Snigdha Anand Prakash, whose unfortunate hair and inextinguishable spirit inspired this poem)