My Words

FOS

When identities

With sharp piercing contours

Wound and injure

The ‘odd-men-out’

When free-speech or free- will

Is mother of all sins;

Don’t look at my words

They are either not words, or

Not mine anymore.

Words, thrown at you,

Pushed in your mouth,

For gains unknown to you

To pacify one, hurt another

Unnerve you.

When the ink gets mired

With the muck of

Class, creed and lame loyalty;

When your passions

Pure and sacred

Get stalked and trolled

By a collective madness,

The hearts go blasé and bleed.

Before my words

Shrink, shrivel and

Fall like dead pawns,

On the chessboard of

Hyperbolic Nationalism

Let me gather and wrap

These little babies

In cotton-wool,

Make them take a sabbatical

In the deep caverns of my mind,

Away from the

Cacophonic, puerile patriotism;

Or should I…

Scatter them around

To get singed,

Like the first rain drops,

In the burning sand;

Hoping… One day,

They’ll take roots, and

Give shade to those

Lost in the blind desert

Roaming rudderless

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Posted in Causes, Poem by Narinder Jit at March 22nd, 2017.
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