Comma

Low probabilities,

Odd chances,

A breathless thoroughfare of tremors.

Solid and usual objects are ghosts.

Eyes wide shut,

Everything is across the partition,

An erasure of material compulsion.

An old regime of wear, tear and demotic fragmentation.

I have an idle mind and a vacated life,

Constraining me an invisible cell,

With a trap of lingering sensation.

It is a concentric matrix of abandonment and reclamation of senses,

Of inaudible cries for help and involuntary state of sedation.

A physical horror,

Like a lone travellers on an eternal voyage,

Misplaced somewhere in the universe.

I am rusty,

I doubt I can crack life wide open,

I am thriving on the anticipation of sentimentality.

But it is an abstraction ,

That my shattered bones will knit and march again.

Just a paucity of hope , that I ,

A string less kite can be the incandescent horizon to an indigo sky.

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