Hands soiled,
mending the manure
fragrance concocted out of filth
Wood chiseled,
sculpting the unyielding
suited to needs
Minds nourished,
moulding the possibilities
blossom into a glowing
Much utile to society
as a gardener, a carpenter,
or a teacher I could have been
instead of plying a pen
trying to wield
a livelihood out of verbiage
a career out of periphrasis,
chosen without a choice
by songs and verses
Fragrance, filth, chiseling,
blossoming, possibilities
forever left to mean
more than the meaning
their cloak of alphabet
struggle to conceal
Will trade it for trade any
the day poetry
becomes a trade to me
moulting into anything
short of a fire that keeps me
alive and burning
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