Those bouts of doubts

Don’t suppress them, address them.
Don’t speak to them, speak with them.
You can risk brushing away that stupid thought
That suggests you can get away with an
“I was misquoted.” expression,
When fleetingly acknowledging them at a convenient hour.
For you can’t pretend to
Not have heard your ‘inner’ voice,
Over and over again
Till the apparently feeble voice confronts you
In rebellion, from civil unrest –
Of voices oppressed,
Probably a yearning plea sprouting into
A voice that crosses all decibels.

A poet cannot afford to be afraid
Of, and before writing something,
If she/he lets the fear grow,
The poem is born dead.

Soiled in fear, brandishing courage
They march on
To the cry of left-right-left
A far cry from the rhythm of nature,
Like horses wearing blinkers,
The uniform not quite merging
With the throbbing green-brown landscape,
I wonder, if they ever wonder,
If they’re chasing their enemy,
Or plotting an escape?
Do they know,
Whom they’re trying to hide from?
The men on the other side, or nature herself,
Committing an unnatural act as they were?
Or,
Is this a twisted version of
Survival of the fittest at play?
The soldiers retreat into the jungle
A flying bird on its way back to its nest,
Eclipses the setting sun for a split second,
They mistake it for a military plane,
Take aim and witness the giant shadow
Shrink to a fluttering blob of life
Writhe and then lie still,
As it landed on the ground,
The sun sets in this unnatural setting of
Survival of the fittest.