By Ishaan.
I clung onto her, like old men,
to positions of power.
my pride looms large, like –
their polished ivory towers.
ask me for reasons,
and like them, I too shall cower,
and make feeble attempts to justify,
this frantic infatuation to power.
Like moths to fire,
this too seems like our innate desire.
for honestly, neither of us really know.
maybe, we simply cannot take a no.
maybe, it really is just the ego.
for love and liberty left the table,
a long time ago.
now, partisan zealotry masks-
the elector’s reluctant sufferage,
our marriage masks-
her loathful suffering.
but it never really was about the voter,
or her.
it was always about us.
us and our unending explanations:
society, expectations, systems, expressions,
all to dodge our own truths,
to deflect an act- long overdue,
for them to retire and for me to let go.
to start forth – anew.
Libëranté. 