Sinking Worlds

When I am sauntering down the alley,
Or walking down the boulevard,
I look around,
As if looking for a familiar face,
But find myself at sixes and sevens,
Amidst chaos, hustle bustle, and,
A horde of sad, despondent lives,
Crowd of lonely people.

And then,
Then a thought, an epiphany comes,
“Isn’t the world such a lie?”
Such sadness, such angst,
What is it but a casual lie,
Said on a monotonous mid-day
Like a fantastic drab dream,
Of a sound sleeper,
That could break anytime,
Breaking the ground beneath me,
Causing me to sink inside,
With the abstract world fading away,
Like fog on sill, on a cold night,
Wrapping up closer, till thrown apart.
As for I,
I would sink on, till woken up.
Isn’t the world such a lie?
Like a huge dreary castle of gold,
Built on a little pillar of wood,
So strong,
So delicate,
That a little storm could be its linchpin,
And set it apart.
Isn’t the world such a lie?
How could all this, everything here,
All this sadness and monotony,
All this pain and hypocrisy,
I often wonder, be true?
“Isn’t the world such a lie?”
I often wonder on dreary ploddings.

And then,
Then, comes that little squeak,
That caressing hug, that pink cheek,
That little sunshine after years of rain,
That burnishing fate, That familiar face.
And, so I balance it all again,
Back on my dilemma plain,
How could it be true: so much pain?
How could it be not: so much love?





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