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Metamorphosis

Amartya

There was always a subtle defiance,
The kind, eyes cannot perceive,
In the midst of a grandeur crisis.
I've always wondered, with sodden eyes,
Why everything need to be grand to be noticed?
And perhaps, everything was right there somehow.
To miss out the small things. Always.
The choices I made were origami papers
The ones, so light I could toss them out to this scarcity.
And embraced the shape of wind, until it reached the sea.
The edges shrunk fast and then was the body itself,
I became a body without identity, among infinite others.
A pulp, slowly pulled by turbulence, and nothingness.
Embracing, is a kind of acceptance that are like ashes.
I have closed my palm in hope it will hold together.
The shards are still kindling like a funeral pyre,
Yet, the reverence for this silence is still anew.
Like a bystander I observe my own being now. 
Like searchlights that illuminate a portion,
All of this has been a gesture, since time immemorial.
A gesture to steer through empty bottles and painkillers,
Through, rough edges and smooth ones.
The roads unfollowed are still slippery from last night's rain, 
That let me slip right into time, and I stay there like a crossroad.
A crossroad full of water and a kind of intoxication.
Yet my feet are grounded to the one I have taken.
A road to unlearn myself like an unconventional theory.
A choice.

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