Wake up,
Let’s take a look around.
Smelling for stars,
Hunting all skins,
And synthesize every sound.
Turning every page,
And rolling each burnt stone.
Since, how many births…???
We all’ve been doing it,
I really don’t know.
With masked faces everywhere,
Tolling on aimless roads,
Never not failing to return;
With their empty hands and vacant heads.
It is not a Halloween masquerade,
Neither any Santa’s carnival auctioning anywhere.
Like an endless fiction,
We simply play our roles;
At the roll of cosmic dice every day,
And the world endlessly breathes;
Living a virtually visible saga of pseudo anatomy,
Leaving a virtually invisible saga of our pseudo anatomy.
Last birth on my walk,
An endless talk standing on the horizon.
Sipping evening tea with the trinity,
Ooh Dear my bad, it should be holy!
As per, our eternal parents doctrine and philosophy.
The Lord; His manifested Son,
But the third has to be Lucifer certainly.
For how can a beautiful day dawn,
Without drools of darkest nights..?
How can the Light get known,
Without the presence of any dismal darkness..?
How can righteousness celebrate its purity,
Without annihilating the toxins in a sin..?
How can an untainted love be felt,
Without the bitter taste of hatred..?
Turning every pebble,
Upside down;
Walking on my head,
With my legs floating in the skies;
Peeping beyond screens of thin layer,
Seeking to find the ether.
To hear the unheard,
And speak the unsaid.
Am always so close yet,
Sometimes, still so far.
The Truth is my emergent urgency,
Either nor neither to fancy.
In this endless fiction,
Why we simply play our roles..???
Who rolls the cosmic dice every day…???
As the world endlessly breathes;
Living a virtually visible saga of pseudo anatomy,
Leaving a virtually invisible saga of our pseudo anatomy.
Gazing at the uphill roads of Mt. Love,
And thinking about the lost times;
When someone went astray,
For a power possessed head,
An illusory mermaid.
Her broken promises,
Her unresolved vows;
That incomplete commitment,
And her sweet farewell.
All were mere blasphemies for me.
As long back ago,
One heart has already gasped and died;
In a sacred Saturday funeral,
Trying to love again,
But failing to feel in vain.
In this endless fiction,
The way we simply play our roles;
At the roll of cosmic dice every day,
For the world to endlessly breathe;
Living a virtually visible saga of pseudo anatomy,
Leaving a virtually invisible saga of our pseudo anatomy.
Soumya Bollapragada
