By Ibaad Khan
When the conscience was latent somewhere, cloaked and domed
The idea of a parent was an easy entity to behold.
They dictated, yours truly obeyed, coached, and owned—
A simple chain of command, my id dozed.
Slowly sneaking up behind me, a ghost groaned and showed,
The id(iot) got a rude awakening, but the ego choked.
Yours truly dictated, yours truly didn’t obey (or did?), loathed and coped.
No chain of command—my id was coked.
The world certainly was of no help—began with a poke, then posed.
I couldn’t decide whether to feel homed or poached.
Who was this host who was loaned?
Was the previous presenter roped and cloned?
Too many questions arose—a furlough was close, honed and toned.
So I took a jolt from me—was left smoked.
The exile was all new; at a stroke of the clock, I strode—at another, I strolled.
The initial thought behind the tangent was plain, but the tangent itself was lobed.
Erode a day, a month—a day and a month manifold.
A sudden guest revealed itself—untold, but composed.
This persona was not alone; it cajoled a certain other who was finally paroled.
It was none other than the choked egotist, who had ploddingly grown like mold.
The beholder looked around and realized that the clone had eloped.
At the same time, the roped had been disposed.
The exile had finally ended; the imbecile id revoked.
The system had flipped; the rule of the visitors was imposed.
A new age could be sighted at the horizon, ready to gain a foothold.
However, a concern struck—was another age postponed?