Outside My Poetry

 Outside my poetry, I do not exist
And you shall not seek me too
For I have found a place so obscure
An attic with million little things to do

Outside my poetry, there are no bellicose-love
No slithering compassion or capacious rage
There’s just an elusive painting, waiting to be deciphered
And whetting words to nettle the sane

Outside my poetry, I shall not deem
The betrayal of a beloved or the benevolence of a foe
For they aged within me, within the words and the sea
Of my heart that entails the story of several Suns which didn’t go

Outside my poetry, there’s a smitten cat
And she whirls as she curls
Inside the contumacious life
And she whirls as she curls
As the wispy bridge of her dreams fall down
And she whirls as she curls
While ogling at the slow decay of her life
And she whirls as she curls
Trying to become impervious to the sundry atrocities
And she whirls as she curls
Watching the infliction of the world

Outside my poetry, I do not exist.

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