A pocketwach, the background is black.


Unleashed Being Poetry Leave a Comment

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Amidst the mellow summer breeze,
Swaying movements, a nimble feat,
No ill will, no worldly deceit,
Unrivalled trajectory – gone in a heartbeat,

Slowly tumbling down,
Ushered by a gust of wind,
Yet tender, graceful,
Innocent – without a sin,

Its path lacking even a single drawback,
One step at a time,
Unperturbed by glowing lights,
Life’s ever-resonating rhyme,

At times harsh,
Brazenly, destitute even,
But quickly back on its way,
For everything else appears but lethal,

Straying too far from the path,
One has to wonder,
Whether life’s erratic whims are but lofty mountaintops,
Cold peaks – mirroring our innate slumber,

For what lies beyond is where it’s at,
Life, that is, pristine, unexpected bliss,
No sort of aspiration will ever come nigh,
It has to be experienced, simply felt,
Yet we ask ourselves all the time: “what appears to be amiss”?

‘Tis but an interlude,
A reoccurring dream,
Confined to neither logic nor rationale,
One has to look within,

For neither fame nor glory,
will ever change what’s left,
Their outsides shining brightly,
Their insides utterly bereft,

No grande finale,
No red finish line,
Yet we appear to be stuck,
Forever bound by time,

Struck by deadlines,
Ends to meet,
The internal red light,
Utterly deplete,

Fifteen more minutes to go,
Oh, how very vexing,
Soon to end, soon to complete,
The clock is ticking – how perplexing,

Finished in time,
A brief sigh of relief,
Exchanged for a dollar and a dime,
In essence quite obsolete,

For what’s taken will never be yours,
What’s left is all there is,
No second will ever come close,
To the present; our only gift,

The past and the future pale in comparison,
For they are but carcasses of the lost,
Their very meaning has gone missing,
The second they’ve been internally voiced,

Trying to grasp what does not exist,
Is but a fools errand, one occurring on a regular basis,
Hit-aim-miss, rinse and repeat,
Our everlasting defeat, forever constrained – locked into eternal stasis,

As we become frozen,
Led astray by a false sense of belonging,
We cling tightly onto the next grave,
Not realizing that it is our own shortcoming,

Time supposedly heals all wounds,
But the internal bleeding remains the same,
For there is no greater foolishness,
Than perceiving life as some sort of game,

Putting labels on everything,
Reminiscing about times long gone,
Looking forward to the future,
Effectively becoming undone,

Simply being,
The kernel of our very existence,
Squashed beneath a false meaning,
Our distorted sense of persistence,

As the next week draws near,
We are already preoccupied,
Constructed what absolutely has to happen,
We simply sneer; “there is no time”,

And so the cycle repeats,
Since happiness can neither be found, nor created,
Life will never appear complete,
As long as we are timebound, wholly ill-fated.

© Unleashed Being

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