Detachment – it hangs as the status
Of my virtual socializing site,
Mostly with me out of sight!
It hangs as my status - the state of my mind.
Hangs like a noose, exclusively blind.
It rolls from my eye, struggling, stifling.
Like a stone, on a dead, silent, street.
A stone, a tool, a weapon
Not merely a pebble.
But suddenly a laudable commodity.
Yet a stone, like cold icicle,
When gushing over my pale cheek.
To evade, to cut, to severe
Is not detachment
But to obstruct, to de-construct attachment -
All obtrusive and conclusive.
To construct detachment is a fission reaction
Its is more willingness and less stillness
It is more about the free flight
Than those nestled dreams.
Detachment sings more of Freedom
A song dipped in bitter-sweet confidence.
Of a gala insanity, very desirously inked
With blood in one’s will
A Will, incapable of inheritance by any heir.
A Will, earned, if need be, by a revolution.
There is utter denouncement of all bonds.
The vilification of all that restiveness.
It is movement in all directions
Culminating in amorphous Dance,
Neatly splitting the body of this nomadic soul.
Detachment is a puzzle
Which sets free each jig from every saw
Part by part, entity by entity, atom by atom.
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