My Nib

My nib is incensed
my fingers eloquent;
they never sleep
all they do is sweat.

They shout what Autocracy
calls forbidden values
They limn what speech censors
tag unapologetically dirty thoughts,
since they must decipher at shut doors
the secret codes of a treacherous heart.

Do they sweat for gain
since this pastime – Poetry
isn’t remunerative but a sin
against material Wealth n’ Riches?

They submit to what my mouth fails to utter –
a vent to bask in FREEDOM,
to become timid no more
to this self-serving hallucinations.

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