The Linguist

Through words one might find solace
Within experience as the glitterati
As I sense the outside through
parameters of limited knowledge
between unity and subjectivism, the bridge
misled towards constricted forms
Their perishable fate becomes me

lest we tread on the path of devotion, selflessly
a fearlessness stride takes contours
within my own being,
in shape less journey
I am not blaze of my actions
Becoming them instinctively; finding
I am nothing but a dream

A dream where the only dear one seems me
Where I is the center point reality
The darkness of such roads lead into
An infinite
Not one that sets free, not in union
But into
the wilderness of exasperation needs

confounding and restricting
my solace in words is impermanent
every now and again to find newer ones
pacifying my insecure mortality
I become a sensory machine
An active source of infinite reactivity

Fed through experience
The light within me is veiled, through
An image of the self
Built within a narrative extensively
Trying to please the need of my ego
I am nothing now
but a conductor it seems

Merely gratifying an egotist’s needs
I am in search of solace
Wondering whether or not
I am in the right place

As the moment passes
I am no more a dream of senses
I am awake –
As the fear of
What might become of me trenches