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Writer's picturethe graveyard zine

Something Never Seen

By: Pranjal K. Singh


Shackled were my hands, I protested,

Shackled was my nemesis with it,

The iniquity of the room swallowed me,

It consumed with it the brightest stars.


The door locked or so I believed,

None to break it I must have thought,

Laid with me was patience,

That infused penitence in the past.


I was shackled, shackled indeed,

Not just my hands, but also my conscience,

That honey dripping off my hands,

My conscience bruised like my destiny.


Fools are the ones, like a fool I was,

Who believed the door was locked,

I got the honey dripping off my back,

Without ever getting stung by the bees.


Yet I was busy complaining,

That I deserved something sweeter–

Something I had never seen.


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