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Desperate Hope
Is it owing to my age? Or power and position?
Am I, in my furnace of self-forsakenness, burning?
Have others abandoned me? Why's there no recognition?
In isolation, as flesh in a frying pan, I'm churning
Where is my imagination now, as a poet, gone?
Why are these thoughts on the absurdity of existence?
Why for the spilt milk of powerlessness praxen I mourn?
Why should weaknesses over my firmness have persistence?
Like a caterpillar pupating for its survival,
Or a person in a river swimming against the whirl
Each element around me seems to have turned my rival
Out of my fond Pandora Box, every evil unfurl
I know I am in between the devil and the deep sea
Honey dripping from far, yet, has become precious to me.
Copyright ©
Christuraj Alex
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