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  • Writer's pictureAnshuman Arya

Compass / Reply




Languidly leading, placidly pleading, motion stirred.

A word, a sword and a mighty force. Aspiring, perspiring, as if enchanted, inspiring,

He lays his wise gaze upon me and says "Welcome Home."

Directionless, but not a minute of stillness, a whirlwind of endeavor

A state of mind, a sleight of hand,

The flight of doves, the time's in sands.

"What do you seek?" She queries, as she puts the kettle on.

Onwards and forward. Lurch. Lean. Search. Keen,

To grasp, vivid dioramas of dreamscapes

Lay bare, my reasons, my reservations, my creed.

"For what is then left," he encourages, "is an urge."

A veil, a bejeweled raiment, quite benign.

Once lifted, ripples spread in all directions.

It becomes the design.

It is the design.

A leaf, a snail, the forests, the whales.

A spirit uniform; a universe informed.

Gather pieces of light and invite them inside.

I'd rather try, to not try,

Don't say a word.

I found your Reply.


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