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by Arsh K.S 8 months ago in surreal poetry

approximations of an autobiography

I am not a name

The person that I was

perished with the dreams

that held him together

Though I still remember them.

I am not a voice

Too many have

spoken through me

For me to call, one among them

My own

My memories are old leaves

I cast into the fires I see

Just in case

They may burn a little brighter

I am not a body

For hunger, pain and thirst

Are real only in a world

With water, comfort and food

Other bodies, apart from mine

Which I must still mind

If I am to sustain this one

I am not a soul

For in fear I may waver

From what I believe to be true

And in any case,

The One that was my soul

Has shattered into many

They prick uncomfortably,

The pieces, like a seashell

You may step on

While walking along a beach

The tide are waves of voices

They wash over my thoughts

Which trace a line along the horizon

It passes through moments

Which I identify as poignant

Before the weight of living

Draws me back

To work, home and hearth.

surreal poetry

Arsh K.S

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Arsh K.S
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