The bobbing head to the jazz in an exclusively odd way,
The rhythm of the unfelt conversations moving in an unmoving way,
There were more wrongs done than the number present in that wasted hay.
And yet, they all fit in a hundred different ways,
Like emulsifying oil to make unzesty mayonnaise.
Words blurted in a glimmer of pride: semantics on a run,
Sentences spelt with blank ideas: memories of syntax gone,
Were they answers, to non-existent questions: mirrors undone,
Voices mimicing voices, passion lost in groundless tone.
And yet, they speak in a language, to them: seemingly known,
Like new hieroglyphics, with each figure their own clone.
Oh! but wait. If every other thing fits in an unfitting way,
Am I the human or an alien, as fitters would say?
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A Little Something:
Though written in a traditional 14-line structure, this piece breaks the norms that we generally associate with a traditional structure: the rhyme scheme, the unravelling conflict (rather than a resolution), the binary sonnet, most things, in short.
Apart from the symbolism in the words (that I so love), this piece has phonetic symbolism as well. It won't be revealed here, of course. Because I hope there must be a heart which would love to find it by (and for) themselves rather than being elaborated here.
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