It seems that the mind has died away
The imagination is lost, the dreams of a child
The thoughts describing things as beautiful, as pristine
As what would keep me occupied, in mind and soul
Now to the dust, it’s all cast
As if it’s just erased, as if like an eraser rubbed it away
The scribbling of a now dead soul
Often seeking to escape into the higher realms of imagination
To write, as if to speak in volumes
To write poetry, it seems gone now, all in vain
The feelings now dead, the felt now as if caress on an uncut stone
Hurled into oblivion, and the colours
Red, and green, and purple and blue, and all those we see
All mixed into black
Staring at me in the face, as if to question
What has become of me? What has?
And I reply with the same, what has?
Both without answers, we stare at each other
Me and myself, as if two complete strangers
Who seem incidentally quite alike, only one equally opposite
What is same, the loneliness
The separation of the self from the existence
As no one may have known, as no one may have wondered, ever
And if they did, may not have understood
Not as if they want to, not as if they care
Nor that they can, nor that would think of even
But i guess that is what it is of life
Such is life, mine, and of myself
We sit often, stare each other at point blank
What are we, who, why?
