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Solitude

Why it is so, impulse to converse, to tell what last moment told me…
Was it worth, was it enough to move inch ahead in path…
Do I want to talk to you, the one whom I know…
Or I want you, stranger with familiar anonymity..
Why do I speak when real conversation is done without anything outward…
What is there to be known will be known…
What is the difference if I say it or someone else or no one…
Conversation, is it naturally in my veins, but then also the silence
Is it just habit I took on or is it substitution for time that I spent with myself…

Can I drink my own words when solitude is eager to speak?
Can I touch to my own carvings when I do not recognize myself?
Can I gift myself a world woven and created by my own, when I deny any signal from the world?
If I leave myself here, and,
Swim by this current of my words,
Walk along shores of these poems,
Travel by road of selfless search,
Will I reach to a man, who lives in me, yet so stranger to me?

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