Just without myself and within myself: A poem 

(Fuck off Prakash Saint Paul! You are fish, not fire, earth or air!) 

I didn’t have the patience, at any point in my life, to watch sunrise or sunset 

They were not enigmatic to me, the pictures of the world darkening or lightening 

I didn’t even relish the subtleties or outpourings of nature, as much as I wondered 

in a fantasy of creation; enlivening characters to walk the corridors of my mind 

And I could relate a story like an extempore King, never pausing once started 

Then suddenly I grew up to grope in a vacuousness; as my brain got buttoned up 

You see, I had an unsounded warning that my fiction would be encroached upon 

The rudiments of my own beauty trapped in a repulsively harrowing threat of annexation 

I realised I was no dignitary to myself and my sacredness, but captioned by captivity 

I wandered in this enslavement to a frustration of constant blame for my defiance, and diffusion 

of potential loss of love, loyalty and possession to an evil far outstretching my ability 

Do you all feel the magnitude of rejection of my silent wisdom that kept sacrifice 

as I persevered on the guillotine of character assassination from all and sundry?

I can account for my sublimity, humility and patience to the degree of peerless achievement 

I can take pride in my selfless duty to a scorned obligation (without expecting any recognition) 

I, God, love myself even more, now, in retrospect, reflection and realisation 

Even the net of visual impairment out of treachery does not take away my pride, in all the pain 

I realise my potency like a fire that can emblazon the whole universal sky, without wanting any self-gain