Waited for calls,
Stared at walls,
Pointed in halls,
Briefed of withdrawals.
Cooked once, ate thrice,
Hooked for the prize,
Who knows if it’s demise.
Stayed in the books like a nerd,
Hinted always to be part of the herd,
Hindered, never knew how to fly like a bird.
Here, there’s a Pandit and there’s a Pope,
Tell me, my beloved, do we have any hope?
Thoughts are often deeper than the ocean,
How are we different if both our skins burn?
Let’s hurl stones at each other—here, your turn.
Using these hands as carefully as a mortician,
Chewing something hastily that’s already bitten,
Carrying your sins around like the Mariner’s albatross hitten.
Talking to someone who raised inflection,
Pointing out all my facts were pure imperfection,
Confirming his own ardent diction,
Walking ahead, leaving behind reflection.
Spoke while muting the masses,
It’s those days when they overfill people’s vases,
While keeping their hands closer to the maces.
It’s all about the sip,
You got a side to pick,
Hurry up, be quick.
Caste catharsis causing cadaverous cacophonous calamity,
Caricature criticism censured committee.
There’s nothing that I have learned,
Hanged to these trees and burned,
You’re the hunted still going for the hunt,
You were supposed to pay attention—you weren’t.
Came into this world with Tabula Rasa, a clean slate,
No preconceived notions, no bias, love, or hate.
Broaden your eyesight—all exits lead to the same gate.
Wandering the nights as if lost spirits,
Hearing the noises of the crickets,
Longing to meet you, even for minutes.
Wandering Through Shadows | Poem
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