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In a different way
In a different passion
My reason abrupts - being silenced
I fall - willingly - forget willingly
I owe for my indifferent state
In a different way
In a different fashion
I know the rising is to come

An act - of being just -
Of vomiting - for self-denial
And not to stay - in debt
Acquiring amenities - indulging in own flesh
Agreeing on being deaf and blinded
For conscience to be a martyr
For prayers in the haughty thoughts
Abusing right of strong -

In a different way
In a different passion
Betraying any act of love
And human nature
Sing songs - and fall corrupt
Do tolerate - injustice
And for the lack of words
Kiss hands of tyrants

In a different way
In a different fashion
I know the rising is to come

In solitude I am to seek the strength
I do look for the sky to clear
Abandoning the ties of slave
I harbor for support inside
I know I'm given all to rise
I know I am to rise
Wandering - through the deserts storm
For the breath - is mischievous - craving
"I comply" - prayer's false - sinks in flesh
Blissful kiss - lullabies' pace - is uneven
    Edging of dunes
    Under wind - martyr sings
    Primal scent - salty lips
    Shudder thrills - tracing hands
    Hips endow - shaking
        Drugged - with a truth
        In an oath - for the witness
        Sand is warm - reason thralled
        "Do forgive me"
After a sprint for several years,
Amidst the din and bustle,
I sat one day, quiet… to think.
No phone, no plan, no subtle hustle.

The world kept spinning just the same,
But something in me asked to stay—
To watch the wind move through the trees,
To feel the weight of just one day.

I traced my steps in silent thought,
Each victory, each sleepless night.
Were all these miles I chased so far
Still burning with their promised light?

I didn’t judge, I didn’t grieve—
Just let the questions slowly land.
Had I been present as I ran?
Did I still know where I began?

There in that pause, I met myself—
Not the name or role I’d worn,
But something softer, more alive—
The part of me not built for scorn.

It whispered not of wrong or right,
But simply asked, with open grace:
Is this the path you meant to walk?
And do you know your truest place?

No thunder struck, no answer came,
Just stillness deep and strangely kind.
A quiet room, a steady breath—
The rarest peace: a quiet mind.

Somewhere beyond the ticking clocks,
A bird took flight without a sound.
The air grew light. The moment stretched.
Along the window rim, a star blinked.


Susanta Pattnayak
The tree stood tall,
eyes lifted to the quiet of sky.
Its branches bore the season's pride—
a crown of leaves, dancing in light.

Among them, one—
a leaf brushed in green and gold,
clung close to its place.
The hush came softly,
a gentle breeze,
barely a whisper,
yet enough.

It loosened.

It let go.
And as the stem slipped from its hold,
the world tilted.

Fear first—sharp and quick—
of falling, of ending,
of the space between belonging
and being alone.

But the breeze curled beneath
like a secret promise,
and suddenly—
flight.
A quiet thrill, a floating wonder,
as if the sky had always been calling.

It spun, slowly, weightless,
and glanced back—
at the branch that once cradled it,
the siblings it played beside,
the early rains, the sunlit hushes,
the laughter of birds.

A pang—
not regret,
but a soft sorrow,
a love for what was!

Then came thought—
of life, of letting go,
of how even in descent
there is a reason.
Even as a fallen leaf,
it would dry, curl,
be swept, be burned,
warm someone’s night,
feed the roots of its mother tree,
become earth again.
It could be a bookmark,
a decorative piece —
reminding of beauty, of quiet change.

It understood.

And when it touched the ground,
it did not break.
It became.

Still, quiet,
yet filled with a knowing—
that even in this silence,
there was music.
Even in the end,
there was offering.
Even in the fall,
there was flight.

And above,
the tree swayed once,
not in mourning—
but in grace.

© Susanta Pattnayak
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
I thought afar, yet never wandered.
Always saw that what I never watched.

For the distant blaze, I brought forth the horizon.
But, the landscapes turned to patchwork swatches all at once.

By Speare you drove your votives,
That which was a work of prose.
By reality, it was as an artist's pose
On a good kind of love.

For a lover is a writer,
Whether with ink & quill
Or lead & wood cylindrical.
For a lover is a writer,
Whether with chisel & stone
Or dynamite & the mountains.

Whether they write in constellations
Or draw in the sand on the beach,
Time it will take us.

For time, it shall take us.

But, in time,
Will there be that which is loving?

What say the scars unseen?

The deep peaks & valleys cut?
That which you etch
Without ever touching it?
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
You couldn't tell if I was crazy
If you were even any sane!
And you're not.
You couldn't tell if I was sane
If you weren't any crazier!
But you are!

Does it hurt your head to think?
Why, let it stop!
Does it hurt your chest to breathe?
Why, just quit it!

Soemone else can do that for you,
You can just take the credit!
For if the heart should ache
You're better off without it!

But serious-
The cloud tells the rain
What is & is not water.
Do the falling droplets care?
"What are these foreign definitions?"

The destination is the same,
Their own priorities remain,
And perspective is unchanged.

These strange properties,
Words themselves as elements
When strung together by sentence.
Is repentance within a reflection?
Redemption by sight through a drop of liquid?

What grippings within these pensions,
What potential within these tensions,
What whippings within these conventions.

By the accounts of every party attended,
What stern material has been cobbled.
Yet, poverty is worn stronger.
That which itself is as the weather,
I think it closer to trinkles
Than shine & twinkle.

What do the poor pour?
What do the bums toast?
What do the homeless shower?

A buddy of mine
Left really only notes.
Another was a rotten cheater.
I knew one that liked to play with guys,
Knew one that liked masks & needles.
Comes what? What goes? Who knows.

It can't be worse than before,
But that's not something you remember.
Of course, I mean, not someone you know.
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
Golly, fellas!
Gee, ladies!
These folks.
Am I right, person(s)?

They say it's no fair!

Hey, if you didn't already know it-
I'm hoping you get the best.
Usually, that's by lesson.
And, wouldn't you know it,
You're quite the students!
I just noticed you were struggling learning.
So, I reduced it down to the basics!
You've just got to get to studying.
Of course, not that it's always obvious,
What field even peaks your interest?

Perhaps it's walking.
Perhaps it's gawking.
Perhaps it's trying.

But to what do they compare?

Perhaps it's sensation.
Perhaps it's thinking.

But who's to say
What that even corresponds to?
Who's to say
What those even correspond to?

The only you with say
Is the same to make the decision.
What I mean is;
A lot of things are going to get in your way,
Don't be your own obstacle.
Whatever it is you're trying to do, own it.
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
Look, I smashed them all together!
Look, I tore it all to tatters!
Look, I sewed it all back together!

Look, I wasn't familiar with the formula.
Look, I didn't understand the directions.
Look, I lost the thread all connecting.

Look, look!
Look, I even changed interpretations!

To listen to all the stupid rambles!

Look, I've got a narrative!

To ignore every answer!
Sudzedrebel Apr 16
"But what of these truths?" Asked Plato of Socrates.

"But what is truth in purest essence?
For what of the material is purely true?
Yet, by the very nature of the immaterial,
What may we ever quantifiably call truth which we ourselves have no alternative way of examining?
In going so far as to ask for an answer, you must already have proof.
What proof is there that there is truth?"
Spoke Socrates.

"Mentor, you ramble."
Spoke Plato.

"Pupil, I rumble!"
Spoke Socrates.
The natural check & balance:
Discussion.
Sudzedrebel Apr 15
Love & love not,
Live and not to love;
Death should be better
Were I read the letter
Of forget our stitched knots.

Live & live not,
Love and not to live;
Life could be no worse
Than in longing for that
Which itself draws no breath.
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