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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