My Friend.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

Reserved slots and
Egos with needs,
White sticks lead me
To them daily,
Show me things
I must not see,
And not need
To have paper & plastic
To exist & be
Acknowledged as alive.
Today, my friend
Wants to be a fish
In a sandy desert
& make it into
An aquarium.
He bites the hand
That feeds him,
& he reveres the stick
That bludgeons
His soul.

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