Corroborate truth to emcompass reality!
Frugal sensibilities lie rather still -
On the outskirts of consciousness,
While I retrograde into my yesterday...
Fingers clenched, waiting in silence,
To be held and led to continuity.
The flute of ebbing realizations,
Tunes into the timbre of thoughts,
And I lie sombre, letting dusk float -
Into my vision of blurred acceptance.
They, on the other side slide along,
A certain trance manifesting itself -
In their looks that gaze at my form.
Perhaps oblivious or just unnerved,
By the solidarity of my timid steps!
Swords sometimes don't hurt as much,
As the syllables that are undone -
In the silence of sulking dreams.
They wouldn't step aside or let go,
Of the echoes that they reflected.
Sounds scattered across the horizon,
That separates me and my past.
I rush around for a lonely corner,
I strum an unknown chord again,
To play with a chance of possibility -
Of abandoning all hope that be!
But prone I was as I later discerned,
To the capacity that truth beholds,
For truth indeed does contain reality,
And somehow I have subsumed truth,
Ever since I have played presumptions -
To escape hope in the dark silence...
But consciousness kicks in quietly,
While the flute fades away at dawn.
And I continue my tryst with hope!
Maybe this is the very last strand...
Brief Insight (Since was asked to put this in by someone)
This is about a man sitting in retrospect of the life that has gone by. He is thinking of things that have happened, people that have pushed him down... And he is trying to understand why he still continues... why he still has hope of goodness remaining...Everytime he feels that this is the last remaining strand of hope and that he would break after this... There seems to be more left... and so he carries on...