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TRIBAL i-LAND

Cannot figure this out at all,

What you have got after all

Or in that clear case, if at all!

A depthless squalid shadow

in the utter-dark mind gutters,

A negligence to anyone’s context,

fitting the only bill- the stigmatic wrinkling

upheavals of facetious remarks, a statement

of much on-going shapeless civilisation.

 

Still the open-minded tribal you are,

much-repelled simplistic beads

of ornaments, dangling softly in honest

echoing, unheard in deliberation,

In hapless fashion you roam about

within this strictly- wicked matrix,

trailing godly hopes all your way,

made to get your deserving goodie,

this knock-out gift of why-so -wondering

‘isolated’ state of haunting bitterness.

 

You have been a clear case

of ejected existence…expected

to be dejected to that limit–

–to be self-rotten to a decaying disappearance,

adding to their seconds of laughter in vengeance.

Better to be distantly confined-

To the silent island of a remote space-

yours very own, a tiny humble home- turf.

In a frenzied rage of superfluous survival,

People have just coffined themselves up-

Hermetic to the airiness of your nearness,

Allergic to your abrasive sparks of ignition-

Flying out their pretence to an ash of fractions.

 

Unpolished soul-ruffian you are filtered,

Lacking refined hypocrisies –a sole non-conformance,

Spelt out burns of societal truth in stark openness,

Consumes the sparse conscience sticking long unused

Reaper of self-crop, pour-in rare elements just to your plot.

TRIBAL i-LAND

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