Saturday, August 08, 2009


A name, a shroud of past
Only a word but, like ice
Sharp and stinging,
A name that reminds.

That which hid many lies,
And which lied many times,
Whose refuge you sought
While mine was refused.

A word that you wouldn’t spell,
But would still be on your lips,
That which wasn’t uttered ever,
For how long would it be veiled?

An entitlement did matter most,
And that which was left almost,
Yet an agnomen you’d take up
And attach and cling on to.

A truth that tastes bitter,
And smells of pity and envy,
Its sight makes me faint,
It is but a hard pill to swallow.

You, born with a name and
The bearings of a man,
Are but just that, springing
From a nameless father.

Chasing from name to bed,
Seeking comfort and chaos,
You ran and ran over an
Unnamed unborn result.

From baptizing you run away,
The aversion to define and call
But hang on to the straws, till
the name deserts you to drown.

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