Devoted Servitude

Never have we faced
The callous cold
Play with the hair
On our skin
Without our permission
For the herd’s back
Is hunched, we were never told
We were never told
Of books of blood
Needing a remission
Ears were intently muffled out
With an honest day’s work
Eyes were distracted
With all that shimmers and shines
Where shadows
Of suspending belief
Would never lurk
The brunt of bricks
And concrete would
Be felt in but lines
Poetry would become
Caviar and luscious leathers
And music,
The coward’s illusion
Come here then
Venerate yourself
With guilty feathers
Have you not been
Filled in by the gatekeeper?
Loyalty and devotion
Are but, cooked within you
The crest atop the mountain,
The one that is steeper
Is but yours and yours alone,
What more can we do?

Dhruv Sachchade just finished his graduation from Jindal School of International Affairs. He specialised in continental philosophy, which is deeply connected to the philosophy of poetry and literature.

Featured image: Pawel Czerwinski / Unsplash