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Ode To A Blemished Self

Poetry By Zain Ul Abidin Khan Alizai

The sliver of the life trickles down the cold bars, slides
down and blinds me to the point where I see clearly.

I the sun stifled and perspiring in the muddy palms of the village-lad.
I the pebble a wondering child throws in the water, on a pond bank.
I a scuba diver, no gear, stranded deep in the labyrinths,
the chambers we name a heart.
the bronzed bloody container of hurt.
All blood.
All mess.
When I look up for the sky,
I don’t see the cinnamon colors I once did.
I the child now, and sky the murky pond.
The moon died last evening
when its buddy revolved away.
My light did the same
when I confronted the truth.
The darkest of all.

life is a yin right now.

The buttery pale yellow light divides the colours it has so rote learnt.
Its tiny little core brimming with blues and reds.
It springs towards me.
I no longer coffee.
I no longer cinnamon.
I a pallid drape of a cheap shroud.
The yang plants.
The yang to blow up my insides.
I no longer remain.
The cracks in the ground eat me up.
The flowery air sucks on my odor like a starving bee.

I no more a beating.
I a hunting ground.
I only a theory.
I the pot at the end of the colorless rainbow.

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