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6

Poetry

Paganic Hours

Yash Nav Singh

The call of the void,
Is like an infinite nightmare.
Fetching fantasies, dispensing hypnoid,
As into the abysmal pit I stare.

And on I look into the chasm,
In search of some greater meaning.
That sends my senses into a spasm,
As if the Gods themselves were intervening.

Dare I question their majestic might,
Their benevolence, that I deem dead.
Believe beyond wrong and right,
And risk being without a head.

Into the darkness I further descend,
With the violent vigour of youth.
Tackling treachery, the taboos I transcend,
Treading through turmoil, towards the truth.

Hysterical hypocrites hail me a heretic,
To a stranger perhaps a heathen,
To you, just a lexical lunatic.

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