Art by Indrani Phukan.
I Am Art.
A Living, Breathing Piece,
Of Excellence. Guided-
By a Fragile Lil Heart, I Walk.
Wielding A Frail Little Light,
With An Undying Flame, Fueled-
By Passion and Pride.
I Can Walk Till the Land’s End. Walk-
All I Want.
But I Am Not Satisfied. No. For,
I want To Run. Gallop,
Like A Strong Steed-
Down Those Sly Streets,
Where Men, With The Workings of a Machine,
Toggle Down Their Routined Ordeals,
In This Town Of Automated Appliances.
Stained All Over,
Their Souls and Minds,
Is a Gut Wrenching Stench,
Of Stale Grease,
And Unburnt Gasoline.
The Familiar Fume,
Of the Unbecoming Of A Man.
The Becoming Of A Machine.
Their Senses Numbed. Minds Tamed.
They Don’t Think No More. They Follow.
Follow Orders. Follow Rules.
Follow Like The Timid Sheep,
Blindly Loyal To The Herd.
Whipped Around,
By The Master Shepherd,
And His Mighty Hounds.
None Dare Try to Run. For They Know,
He’ll Hunt Em Down. And Hang Em.
On A Stake,
By The Gates.
Right Beside A Sign,
That Says:
‘We Prefer Our Art,
Machine Made.
Those With A Creative Soul,
Better Stay The Hell Away.’
But To Those Monsters,
I Yell Back:
I am Not Scared.
Of your Words. Your Whips.
Not Even your Guns.
For I Am Art.
Not the Copy Of The Monalisa. No.
Perfectly Printed. Down To The Very Twist,
Of That Same Sly Smile. That has,
But Mesmerized.
A Million Eyes. No.
That Ain’t Me.
I am Not Machine Made,
But Modern. An Original,
Transcending,
Dimensions in Degrees-
Not Yet Perceived.
I have No Colour Schemes To Follow.
No Set Lines To Tread Along.
I Extend Boundlessly,
Beyond the Boundaries,
Of Black and White.
Yes. I Do Have A Mind.
And A Heart. And A Soul.
Yes, A Bloody Soul!
I Don’t Think You Even Believe,
In Its Existence Anymore.
But You Better Be Aware.
For I Am coming To Get Your Kingdom Come.
I Won’t Walk In,
Through Those Crooked Doors, Where,
Your Shooters Await. Ready –
To Riddle Me With Holes,
Right Into My Core.
Mercilessly. I shall,
But Break In Through-
One Of Your Walls,
That So Proudly Guard,
This Institution Of Machines.
And Wreck Havoc,
Into this Broken System,
You Call A Society.
With A Rumble,
Like Thunder-
Shall I Come,
Crashing Down Upon Your Pillars,
Of Prestige and Pride,
And In A Flash,
Reduce Your Regulations,
Into Ashes and Dust.
Undefined. Unborn. Unreal.
And From Them-
Shall Rise a Phoenix,
Of The New Dawn.
Who Knows Not of Castes,
Nor Class or Creed.
Like Lady Justice,
Blind and Impartial,
True Only To Her Duty.
And Under The Luminance,
Of His Flamboyant Flames,
Shall We Rekindle A Civilization,
Independent Of Your Social Standards,
And Limited Goals.
Which Can Be Perceived,
Through So Much More-
Than Mere Scores,
And Crude Numbers,
Handed Out On The Basis,
Of Who Can Mug Up More.
Where Knowledge Needn’t Only Be Learnt,
Or Known;
But Rather Be Explored.
Rewrote. I Ask Not,
To Bend The Laws of Science.
Nor Change History. No.
What I Demand For Is Independence.
The Free Will Of Choice,
To Choose Their Own Future, Fearlessly.
To Carve Out One’s Own Path.
The Ability To Grow,
In Whatever Way One Yearns To.
To Outgrow-
The Shadow Of Social Mockery.
To Break Free-
From These Social Moulds. And Be,
Who They Really Want To Be.
Independent. Empowered. Eclectic.
An Original. Like Me.
For, I Am Art.
I Have No Beginning. Nor End.
Just An Immortal Ceaseless Existence,
Similiar To None other.
Since Years Bygone,
Have I Swirled to the Rhythm,
Of My Own Unique Tune.
And For Years To Come,
So Shall I Continue to Do.
Unflinched. Unhindered. Unsatiated.
Until Thy Eternity’s End.
– Ish.
Libëranté. 