He doesn’t have a friend like Krishna
To teach him about what is right and wrong
While fighting the battle with loved ones
His own Kurukshetra
There are no cuts that ooze blood
No wounds that suppurate the skin
Not the memories but
Staggering internal conflict
Which oscillate every breathing minute
Taxes his brain
How can his loved ones understand a simple thing?
Like him, they can also be wrong
Alone
He wonders