To Be Continued...

I wonder. What it may be

A realism or my fantasy.

I think. With some hiccups

I write. With a short sigh.

Time. It is passing by

Space, seems little for hopes to die.

I try to make words rhyme

In form of voices, in form of mime.

Reality, is a package

Wrapped in ribbons of randomness.

To think is an act of instinct

To write, you must profess.

The lines may not click, I know

But they always look better when I show.

So is it another poem, one asks?

May be.

For my thoughts wander and may not last.

For I make another try

To make a composed sense of it.

To make words rhyme with life

To reveal what is odd and what is fit.

Familiarity may not be awarded

The scape will keep me misguided.

These thoughts ridicule me, alas.

Snatched and penned down at last.

The words, they will come again.

Through guided explanations

or a random chain.

Those with a heart will make their way through,

left will be the scribbling, more to brew.

The Poet is live. The lines still true.

This poem is born, to continue and continue...

-V!K$