By Ahana Choudhury
Sense of touch is often hard,
Bening, stateless yet full of matter,
Some touches affection, others seek comfort,
Yet, some spoils the soul of the bird!
Some touches grey, some white, some red and some pink!
However, all meet the long-standing pool of sensations,
Ready to be self-aware, yet in the looming gloom,
Succumbing to the symphony of the fin!
Touch nests destruction, despise and thwarting,
Yet, a skulking of the embraced warmth cures all!
The curing of all, and the caress of the hair so long,
Soaking in the nests of the tall and inevitable uniting!
The trail of touches hops from one to the other,
Swifty like a snake in the parallel world of cognition,
It is the touch that defines us all, different from them or other.
Ventilating the spectres with all the flakes of feather!
Touch makes us meet our selves, yet with distant fates,
Notwithstanding the dunes of silent burns,
Shining bright in the cast of iron!
Melts in the oils of the vicious fakes.
Touch is wound, touch is the life of sweet apples.
But not without its own parasitic flesh of secrets,
With pulses of culture and norms of every possibility,
And not without rages of resistance, soaking and empowering battles!