How often have you felt, lost in the labyrinth of never ending mazes, walking on a foreign road, where the entire world seems to know where they are going, and you do not?
How often have you gone, to those spiritual shrines, to the one with unimaginable powers, begging to guide you to a purposeful path, but with all in vain?
How often have you strayed away, from the path you’d supposedely built for yourself, coming back to it in regret, getting swayed by the fancies again?
How often have you lived and just lived, merely by existing and not living?
How often have you asked yourself this?
Seems like we are all the pages
Of an old rusty book
Long forgotten at the back of the shelves
Which was once wild with hope
Like a bubbly child radiating the entire palace
We are like a dusty lowland
Once alive with life
Long swirly creepers entangled everywhere
Glistening the ray of sunlight to an unfathomable mystery
Damaged are these pages now
Our wild seeds of hope
By your twisted ways and your morbid thoughts
You turned the pages bit by bit
Waring them out until they fade away
You willed the world to move on
From the sparkles and wonders of my magical pages
You slowly pushed me back to the sidelines
Till my mushy greenland turned to a dusty desert
Till my creepers died
Gasping for their last breath
Till the long gone pages of the book lost it all
And now we stand
In loss of words
Randomly rambling around
Attempting to sway the attention
Till we lie half- dead at the back of the shelves