Whiplash, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Whiplash

It’s the way the whip cracks,

As the skin flurries in agony.

It’s the way the inflammation is riled up,

Only to fade away as dull acceptance grows.

 

Throngs of jeering spectators,

All so resolute in their cruelty.

Whispers of thrilled awe emerge,

As the whip resounds again.

 
Have they done something?

Yes, they have chosen to live their life,

In such a way that it is simply impossible

To not feel the sting of a void.

 

Have they earned this?

Yes, for they live their live in such a way,

That to not call it pathetic

Would be an almighty crime.

 

Poor tragic fool.

Thought we’d be kind.

Thought we’d show mercy.

Thought the whip wouldn’t crack.

 

Feel the wrath of the whip,

And weep in sheer self-pity.

Then feel delighted at its lenience,

Then feel outraged at its lash.

 

A different section is struck,
Each time the whip falls.

All over, aching, writhing,

Like a worm under the foot of a mortal.

 

Let the whip fall!

Hear our frantic cries for violence!

We want to see that poor fool bleed,

Bleed with the burning strike of the whip.

 

Let them choke up with tears,

Of Acheron, or perhaps ecstasy?

Let them burn with the inferno,

Of Phlegethon, or of passion?

 

Let them feel, emotionally,

The weight Atlas held,

Of a wicked world,
Rife with ungodly terrors.