Stranger in my fist

My fingers are curled into a fist
in them, I hold a stranger
who metaphorically holds me.
There are lines running all over me
who carry blood in my system.
Practically, I should be a slave to them
but I am the slave of the stranger
who holds me in my fist.
The stranger calls himself 'destiny '
he runs down my hand
in a non-uniform, turbulent pattern.
These destiny lines are the ropes
in which I am entangled.
They always pretend to go somewhere
like the rivers, falling back in the same source.
These lines feel like roots
that hold my soul.
I no longer feel like a slave to this stranger
As
I am the tree to these roots.

Chanchal Bagla