Words are departing from my left shoulder now; deceiving millions of alter egos, sabotaging each lone bend of my brain, cerebrum. I can physically feel their escape. They are coming off my eyes, my ears, the tip of my messy hair. The restless budge of my hands struggling to own the edge. Each syllable, each letter, a surging revolution.
A-R-T. T-A-R. R-A-T.
Oh, the subversive self! Cage them before they taste the nectar of liberty. Enslave the string of letters! Usher those abstract permutations and combinations to the unyielding power of my right thumb. Slaves of my literary universe! Salvage the world from the inevitable. Immobilize this game of restitution.
Like meteoroids hiding inside the spurious label of shooting ‘stars’, you deceive me. Yet I struggle to connote a form, a decent habiliment to hold on to your internal dominance. You could’ve gone to war. You could’ve stopped the unending waiting of people for a miracle; that guy in a Guy Fawkes mask could’ve been you. But you chose to take shelter in between the yellow decaying pages of the books in a senile library. You chose the dozing eyes of the budding poets over the clamour of paparazzi.
Nebula of abstractions! Bring me the king’s blood.