These alphabets they cringe, cling and wander

Amidst clouds of circles, in the lining of all light

where the water waits and the mother awakens

These words that arrive in formations

Of distilled solitude      Shared solitude       Collectiveness

Celebrations        Points of poetry           Points of war

Points of indulgence       of conveyance      of transaction

These words that people think that they take and bring

to existence           Plants in cold rain              Talking Too much

never enough         These words they think    are tools

that carve          that emboss          that shake

These words have never been strangers, somehow

But I don’t claim to take them in these soiled arms    Ever

I’m not that alive              Nor are they who claim, only mistaken

Language has always been an invention of itself

A higher consciousness               Above the slithering, along the

periphery of breaths

Image source: British Library    Prose and Editing: Aakriti Kuntal

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6 thoughts on “Periphery

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