Poem : His Hermit

His hermit has my imprints

His fissures has my humid self

His foils have my risen wings

He is tired for sure

He is trembling at shades

He is not a tyrant of turmoils

He is yet a witness to wicked weathers

He is a timeless glass

He is yet a time locked puzzle

He is an imagined imprint

He is yet a deluge off a dream coast

He is an instant fiddle

He is a yet a persistent pedestrian

He is now a happy hermit

He is yet perennial nomad

He is but not a lattice leech

He is a dexterous balance

He is my line between nomad and abode

I happened to be besides his hermit today

I happened to see what all virtues he had

All the virtues that made him wrong

All the virtues I forsake for my rights

My rights are rightfully wrong upon him

His wrongs are willfully right upon me

He, himself, his hermit, itself, they will hoist my future

I, myself, my humid haste, they witness his hallmarks

It is a a country road that connects us

A cross road to a collective chaos in the middle

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