i'm in my own city
with boxed towers standing high
surrounding me sitting with indian legs
this place smells of old raw memories
they have collected dust making me sneeze
making me inhale and exhale
the blatant truth that we are nothing but nomads
we roam inches and miles
with stumbles and fumbles merely to leave our residues
marking the path with our footprints
we dare to think one may want to follow
still i sit with boxes holding me ransom
clutching my shoulders
their dust making me sneeze
and i dare deny
that they are the only ones trailing behind me.
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