stay neutral.
It refuses quietude,
inertia, routine, or
any emotional paralysis.
It invokes rebellion
against stillness and
whispers songs of
revolution in my ears.
It's a beast in hibernation,
fragrance in aestivation.
A calm before the storm,
a tremor before an outcry.
It pushes me inward,
to bring up all of it in
the open.
But Alas!
The government has
banned ink and dyes.
And the stony silence
lingers, searching rocks
to inscribe.
But rocks are holy
and only meant for
statues, says the mob.
So my pen grows teeth
to bruise the air-
The words, tethered,
shall blow over the skin
to scar memories.
The ink, outlawed,
shall paint in red the
pages of history.