We are always what we are,
prisoners of our own device.
From here to a distant star
or from hellfire to stony ice.
Chaotic we live, in chaos found -
We hope for change from the rest.
We pine for blood like a hound -
Yet hope to unload our chest.
What is true, proven and said,
we keep aside, sometimes beneath.
Like a true sword shining overhead,
yet still keep it in its dark sheath.
We are beings of the same branch,
yet our mind have shades of gray.
Life slides down like avalanche -
beneath our shady ideas we lay.
Prasenjit©2022
No comments:
Post a Comment