Mock Epic: The Liturgy Of The Dawn Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Toothbrush, humble wand of foam,
Of rites performed when night releases hold,
When mortals rise to greet the timid sun
And gods of habit claim their daily due.
Before the sky had washed its face with gold,
The sleeper stirred, summoned by fated buzz.
The Alarm proclaimed the hour—stern and loud—
And thus the temple of the home awoke.
First came the pilgrimage to tiled halls,
Cold marble plains that shocked the tender feet.
The Tap was turned; the sacred waters flowed,
Pure as the Ganges in the early light.
The Face was washed—old dreams fell, drowned, erased;
The Mirror bore witness, silent, unforgiving.
Then rose the Brush, white-bristled priest of dawn,
Anointed with the mint's sharp blessing green.
It danced and scraped in ritual combat grim,
While Foam like sacrificial cloud appeared.
The Mouth was cleansed of night's rebellious tales;
The Spit was cast away—an offering made.
Next came the Robes: garments of chosen fate,
Ironed or wrinkled, each a prophecy.
The Sock, elusive, fled like cunning thief,
Till found at last beneath the couch of time.
The Belt was buckled—circle closed and sealed;
The Watch enthroned, a tyrant on the wrist.
In kitchen shrine, the kettle sang its hymn.
Bread met the flame and rose in golden pain.
Tea steamed its counsel; coffee roared its will.
The Cup was lifted—chalice of resolve—
And hope was swallowed, hot and incomplete.
Thus armed with keys and bag and fragile plans,
The mortal crossed the threshold, brave and bare.
The ritual done, the world might now be faced—
For chaos waits, but order has been served.