Crumpled paper, scribbled on
tossed aside; all the marrow
sucked out. The ember- feeble,
You question the turning of your cogs.
What makes you tick?
Or the more pressing one,
Why should you?
For the regal River,
Running deep, dark and magnificent?
Or faces, equally so?
With eyes that glisten
With the meaning of life
a secret, that must never be told-
its a mere fantasy. Lulled into
oblivion by a single prick
of Reality (If one exists)
Or is it, a whiff of petrichor
or some other sensuous smell
One of many the earth has to offer.
Or is it, the heady musk of
yellowed pages, beckoning?
These have seen many a fingers
slip through doors, to places unknown
Or biting, stinging, impetuous winds
Sending leaves of gold
Cascading down turbulent waters
Or opening windows to blue velvet,
Scattered bits of soul
Burning holes through it,
This is all there is and much more.

But truth is stranger than fiction
Falsity, an old companion
Truth be told- this patchwork
of white lies is
That there is no substance to life
shall soon be revealed.
To live is to lie.
(Mostly to oneself)
How long till you divine
from bare threads of
a once comforting quilt of lies
The only meaning is, perhaps
in non-existence.


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