A cold flame

His skillful fingers run through malicious red flames
searching for aromatic green spices
to cook curious foreign cuisine to be served on a deserted white plate.
His lips swallow the tasteless air as
aroma of his handmade cuisine walks through the narrow, dark pathways of his nose,
luring him in.
His eyes are fixed on a romantic pink phone,
placed aesthetically on soft brown tablecloth.
It’s now so so visible what his greedy eyes actually want.
Working at tender age, his hands effortlessly shift jobs,
from cooking different cuisines to cleaning empty dishes.
The romantic pink phone rings and his heart pounds.
The 2 minute long conversation killed his tiredness in one go. He sends his mother, food and paper notes and a couple of smiles through the wire.
Tears diffuse calmy into the sweet sweat glorifying his red face.
Helping his prematurely old mother live a life,
working at a fancy hotel, and
running errands at evening,
he has no complaints for killing his childhood.
The little boy is trying to untie the shackles of poverty tied to his feet, and
inherited from his forefathers.
They call him “Chotu”.
He is struggling in cold flames for everyday survival.

Written in response to Sadjeβ€˜s What Do You See #129 photo prompt

24 thoughts on “A cold flame

    • I don’t know how to thank you for the encouraging πŸ™
      I am glad to know you could feel the pain that those lines are holding!
      Thank you again for kind words . πŸ™πŸ˜Šβ€

      Like

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