A Myth

By Arbia Enam

Maybe poetry is not poetry at all. 

Maybe it's a curse of solitude 

that one finds itself intertwined in.

Words stitched together finely, 

precisely deceiving the naked eyes.

Or just some random phrases one finds amusingly dreadful.

Maybe it is a dragger 

struck right into the heart 

to stop it from bleeding thoughts.

Or a rope disguised as solace

a person strangles himself with.

So, maybe poetry was never poetry.

Maybe it was the random words

that people moulded with their ink

to justify their possession over things

which was never theirs to own.

Which recklessly empowered them 

to sit on their hallucinated throne.

Then live enough to watch themselves despair, 

and then slowly disappear into nothingness.

But never enough to survive 

the conflicted chaos,

that turned them into the monstrous mess. 

By Arbia Enam