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By Pritika Magima

Naked feet, leaving imprints on the floor,

shaking trembling hands, of fear,
of ambiguity.
Its dark, its unholy, this fake paradise.
It leeches onto me, in doom, in vain.
Sway, from the inebriation,
Torn, by the ambivalence of my own.
Its a winding road, this path of success.

Unaware, how my own feet travel,

How they guide my soul to nowhere.
People lost, people found, people betrayed,
people won.
They swim to the scent of flashy green.
Like hounds, they prey, over a meagre voice,
they mould, they breed, another of theirs.
Its bewildering, this fight for the top. 

Backwards, I'd rather be.

With my feet travelling back,
To a meagre voice, but a bold one.
To people found, and people who stay.
To no scent of green, but the whiff of liberation.
To hearts healed, to promises kept.
To no soul torn, in misguidance.
Its tempting, this distant warmth.

I'd walk back to the start,

I'd find myself again.
I'd dream of us, I'd dream of forever.
Confined, yes, that I'd be.
Only little, yet lots to see.
I'd feel the patter of water beneath,
I'd taste the fresh, I'd taste the dawn.
I'd let my toes sink in the earth.
I'd bind me to my roots, amen.

Backwards, I'd rather go.

Slow and sane, yet backwards I'd rather be. 

About the writer : Poet. Trying my hand at monologues these days. And a sucker for blogs. That should do it.


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