Aditya Singh Chawla (Batch of 2017)
Words mask, pause,
falter.
On speech, rhyme, metaphor.
Gibberish, gibberish.
I want to be you.
The depths of your being,
Through shallow, vague, finite –
the utterance of your tongue.
Only a ghost, a shadow
of you.
An ocean of your being,
Through haze, maze, a fog
of doubt, vulnerability.
Only a trickle, a drop
of you.
You.
Tempered by language, fettered by its sanity
I cannot so, be you.
I could command, demand, implore.
I would falter, pause, stammer
on speech, on metaphor. Gibberish, gibberish.
I could not so, be you.
I could be you.
Every fibre of your being,
Nerve, muscle, sinew.
In gasp, caress, shiver.
I’d know. Know all
of you.
The ocean. Depths, trenches, crevices, shadows.
I would dive, I could flounder.
But I’d glide, rush, writhe
As I drown. Drown
in you.
I would be you.
Unfettered, unshackled, untempered
by prose, rhyme, meter.
In taste, sigh, tremor – my words
to you.
In this utterance of our being
You’d have, know, be me. And
I, you.
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