Whisky Complexioned Hair Wig

I was born with a thick shock of curly hair,
Silky strands of light brown cascading down my scalp,
Broad outlines of eyebrow fringe,
They were my pride; cuddled on infinite occasions by my mother,
Glistening in sunshine like pure black shoe polish paint,
Caressing minute regions of my skull in breeze blowing with high velocity,
Mingling once in a while with the delicate periphery of my inverted eyelash,
Sighted as a puffed bunch of dark cushion by all in close proximity,
I always kept them shampooed and scrupulously clean,
Sobbed hysterically in private interiors of my room,
When a cluster of school mates harmlessly plucked a few,
I was obsessed with the concept of evergreen hair growth,
Slept all night with tight fitted shower cap clinging to my garden of hair.

Those whirlwind days of youth had now faded,
Unwanted vigils of old age had crept in at amazing speeds,
Bald patches of skin now sparkled in sunlight,
Resembled rich quality pure wax in pearly light of the moon,
The hair which once inhabited my scalp,
Now lay dumped; perhaps under stagnant waters of the city sewer,
Iterative attempts of washing, scrubbing, oiling, applying medicinal balm had proven futile,
I had finally succumbed to the tyranny of fate,
Nevertheless I still wore fluffy fibers of ant red hair,
Which neither budged nor moved an inch; in the most gustiest of breeze,
Projecting pompously from the artificial plastic of my whisky complexioned hair wig.


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