and I walk away

—and I walk away,

from the cemetery crowd,

with my soul intact, proud

of my virtue and values

unmistaken shrouds

of mistaken strands of

hair, flickering through the beautiful cue of

my eternal news:

That my feet cling to my ankles.

My wrists to my daughter

who is two, and inside me

solid water drops

which agonise my queer eyes

torn strange, across Jinnah drive,

the ashtrays

surround my soul, along

with opinions unasked.

But I walk away to escape

the judgement; guaranteed to

pessimistic connotation.

Like water running in sand,

or fire in a can;

contained.

~

But I walk away.

I don’t need to listen, nor

have I longed for your

emotions, empathy, enthusiasm,

like an alight, dark, candle.

~

My unsocialised daughter,

my individualistic melancholy and

blood, mixed in filthy cotton

candy, produced by artificial starch.

~

Forgive me. My daughter.

Culture has entangled me, estranged me;

alienated me from what it argued to prevent,

capturing my spirit, bent out of

proportion, as a ruby looses

its shine with an inkling caress

of virtues and values. Imprudent,

ludicrous, new, untainted, daughter.

How I contain you, but,

fail to realise why you

won’t,

why you

don’t,

walk

away.

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