New Touch

Inhibiting urges

when faced with subjugation

led me to a greener pasture.

Keeping counsel

when confronted with doubt

brought me a sky bluer.

But borne from smog, smoke, and swirling winds

are clouds of contempt,

and my mind is whirling—

the hand that feeds looks moreish.

by Sangeeth Mathialagan

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Shiva’s Sonnet

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Spoken word poem