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09/08/2016 by Siddiqui Fayesal

All I did was stand up high.

Was that measured?

No. I didn’t decide to scorn the
One below.

But when I stand up high,
I look down low.

I didn’t decide to  walk
The so-called mile to be
At a places so high that
I couldn’t reach where I was
But a moment ago.

I didn’t ask to be give
A pedestal.

I didn’t call a crowd To
Croon at every word I spoke.

Why do shrouds and Wreaths
Dress my words when I
Speak to myself?

Heartfelt and Painful,
Because I hurt?

I hurt not to weep with
I hurt to weep for

But the words and action
Carry weight of the

They only identify the
Emptiness of it, because
It’s only spoken by one.

They congregate and conspire.

They attract each other until
They jostle for space.

For, after all, a word can only
Be impregnated with so much.

Then meanings spill out and
Overwhelm all of us in their

Words, if combustible, would burn
The speaker the moment
They were borne on his

They’d scald the very
Flesh and come out as
A cascade of hot blood.

Because, words are never merely
They’re given birth to.

And they belong to no one.


NB: Written at J. N. Petit

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