Promises made and kept

I made my vow, and this promise I’ll never break,
though a plethora of needles, sink into my heart,
the ache, spreading through muscles, tendons, veins,
bone and marrow, a rush, a scream, a shriek,
silence withholding, but passivity forthcoming,
the end of teetering-tottering, hollering-howling,
and all that’s woefully bright, enchantingly dark,
I’ve promised to forever leave them all,
never give a damn, because missiles directed,
destroy unintentionally, unwittingly, often
looking past a helping hand’s reality, and this
poetic game of thinking-blinking-rethinking
is just a dumb charade, often provoking
false excitement, never in alignment with life
and what happens beyond ink
spilled on a page,
and rage slowly deteriorates,
dissipates, and it’s just a charlatan masquerading
as a muse anyway, an enemy in white
whispering the wrong words,
and if they throw little grenades
of deconstruction, or place mines of
overtly subjective poetic interpretivism,
I’ll walk engulfed in an abyss of green,
my eyes focused on giving imagination
and expression their justice, without the need
for a dart, because I write to stay, survive,
and I’ve read enough to sever, split
ties, and never read again,
so, here I’ll be in my space, alone,
anomalous, giving and taking, receiving
and forgiving, extending my hand to those
who care, and never going near those who don’t.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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