(part 1 of the occupation series)
Dear Me, I've been addressing
Letters to the lost.
"Let it be," I say,
It's not my cause.
Pledging servitude, addressing gratitude,
See where it has brought me?
I hate your manners, your habits, your customs.
You, the Devil, has got to me...
"Given the circumstances,
I expect you to understand..."
"It has been months since I talked to you,
now, the matter's gone out of hand..."
"Hello Sir, I have been ill...",
"let it go, dear, don't comprehend..."
"I am reveling in misery, monsieur,
who do you defend?"
When you write,
but let the quill write itself,
It's when paper, the ink blots,
reveal all kinds of hell.
Testament to generations of
human expression,
I can open your lives,
defile your revelations...
The transporter of words,
the nexus of communication,
Stand here I,
the most humble of occupations,.
I, the scribe of the writhing hand,
I, the most humble postman...
Wait for the other one in the series.
copyright Praneet Kumar Pandey
