Staring at the walls of solid,
fixing my gaze at the vertical behemoth.
Making sense of the chaos stolid
I assess my situation.

It remains unbent
despite strokes of age layering upon the face.
Greying its colours to pulpy dents,
soaking the nails without a hint of pain

My own personality crumbles,
a bundle of nerves at the first tumble,
the face sullen and the head stricken,
the winds toss me into a feathery form,

The examination reflection shudders the soul,
family ties convulse the spirit.
The remaining verve is trapped in a hole
dug at work and realized at home.

Shahzad Ahmad may be regarded as an undefined voice stuttering frenziedly at opportunities that knock hard before disappearing without giving definite answers. Something in him refuses to budge even when the torrents of rejection begin to bite at long held promise. The gift craves for acceptance and tries its hand at first experimentally, then with experiential hindsight and eventually like a battle hardened individual. The art of writing is a matter of responding to the world in a pretty much individual way that may allow other people to revisit that moment of truth.