or so my mind believes, maybe no one needs to hear it, read
But my poems were not for them to either
It was me, wishing for a storm in the calm and vice versa
A want of paradoxes, in the mundane
Life, and it has passed
Transmuted to nothingness, and nothings
Sweet neither, bitter nor
Then what should I write for
The days pass without furore
I have rested my thoughts in the inescapable wince of living
I need not write, in musings or ponderings
This life and I fought, hard and lost
I didn't, maybe it did
But, we don't speak of it to the other
Here under the darkness of night, sleep arrives whenever
Wake, too gets the same preferential paths
Between these, I work, play, life goes on
I do not seek to engage,
Nor, I do not wish to know why
