Wednesday, 7 September 2011


[Something I wrote when I was around 14. The last time I ever tried writing poetry.]

For all the complications this life provides,
does man really understand the reality.

Does there exist invisible to our eye,
a truth behind the burden.

Do we understand the significance,
of each passing thought.

Do we fathom our feelings,
to reach a new level, another step,
towards a light which continues to be,
just out of reach.

Do we question why,
each move is made.

Does a person complicate a monotony,
does he try to make life,
an open field for peace or war,
or a wall which needs,
to be broken down.

As we lay on a platform,
do we face life,
as friend or foe.

As the mind, a sea of inequality,
as an exploitation of the will,
another dimension behind the curtain,
resembles the indirect force,
of a level being.

As an island, luscious or bare,
does thought provide an openness,
or fairness of discharge.

The thinkable surely lies,
on a parallel with a base of understanding.
As a life broken by strands,
of a complascent nature.


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