Vainglory

 

Tousled hair stick out

A salute to morning air,

In cowlick bunches...

Willful, my hair loathes to obey

seasonal change or humidity

it moves and curls as it deems fit

announces mood fashions sans dignity.

Like creepers with the peculiar instinct

of negative phototropism,

my hair seeks the sun.

Stubbornly dyeing raven hues,

recollecting horrors

of white balance corrections,

to minds of veteran photographers.

Its favourite challenge, a haircut,

where sharpened blades shear through turgid strands

that fall readily, one-by-one,

on to my writing desk.

Wayward each hair grows

like galloping wild horses,

mimicking my will.

The above poem is for the NaPoWriMo2021.