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Shaking Off The Dust

Hey there!
I don't know why, but I always see you strolling around this garden. The recesses of my thought are all but filled with your odour, of jasmines and what not! I ponder over your ubiquity, and the ulterior motive of the Divines for making me so, self-righteous and what not! I fumble when I speak, and stumble when I walk; whispering to myself in the metaphorical caverns of poor thought. Some of them rhyme, and then there are those that stink, like the pungent smell of Sulfur. Have you ever had the chance of smelling Sulfur? Would you know if you did?

I look at all my books, obsessively kept in order, black after black, and thick before the thin ones. Then come the notes, of the realm of old. The servile flatterer on his knees, justifying his moniker and inherently ignorant, not to leave inept. I wish I am not one of them, living in my own dark corner.