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I,

This fog of derision
That I am driven through
Every night in my dream,
Darkness in combat boots chasing me,
will lift one day

I,
Who am trapped in my own mind,
a recently developed ghetto,
Will slash through the urban jungle
With its thickets of half baked houses
And rivers of human sweat, breaking free

This prison of my own choosing,
An exile which is bonfire of my vanities
Kindled by an ego on a feeding frenzy,
Will have its bars bent and its walls pulled down

I,
Collector of broken things
And broken people, who devours the
Sun every morning and holds onto
Little madness that falls gracelessly into
Insanity, now sells scrap metal
Secretly inscribed with Nashtaliq



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