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Debasis Tripathy

What We Realized After Another Fight

You Never Say Sorry

What We Realized After Another Fight

We enumerate our arguments. 
As in a sequence, we collect objects
of objections against one another.

As in a sequence, we force ourselves to
tracing erroneous words leading to more, imposing
a loose string of obscure order. Order matters.

Tracing erroneous words is unearthing
a grave of truth, lies, events, elaborations. We
identify ourselves as attorneys of atrocities.

A grave of truth or lies is still a grave
missing breath & warmth, touch & trust. 
The air that escapes vents venom.  

Missing breath is uncountable, unsurmountable.
Take in short gasps of air. Count small till
an integer. You can never reach infinity.

Take in short gasps. Sometimes you might
have to breathe through a ventilator till
you start creating air again, on your own.  

Have to breathe and repeat. Relax.
Place flowers on the grave than baring
the bones. Stop digging the grave, stop
sequencing of insanity, simply move on. 

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You Never Say Sorry

Is it because you fear to burst yourself? The self you keep
muzzled like magma in your body.

I wonder why a blind man wears black glasses— to mask his eyes
or tell others that he cannot see.

There are so many lots & laminas of masks you coat your face with,
to shield what you are & show who you want to be.

There is a filter between what others see of you & how
you think you look. Is that a lens of your sense?

You wear glasses to stop the wind that blows dust
into your eyes. Besides, you have long eyelashes

once lashed out tears from your eyes, a stubborn way
of saying sorry, purged wet in silence.  

You sometimes see a realization looming in front of you
like lightning. It burns your sight.

As always, I leave it to you to decide how & when
to release, to see yourself at peace.

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Debasis Tripathy lives in Bangalore. His recent work features in Mad Swirl, Rogue Agent, Leon Lit, Vayavya, Mantle Poetry, Eunoia Review & elsewhere.  Occasionally, he tweets at @d_basis

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