The world is vague.
Made of plastic or glass;
Pieces pierce.
We’re perpetually in the blue
hanging like clouds or waves
torn apart through moments
beyond our ken

The body is pulling us down.
Whose body? Mine!
I somehow realise that
this owner I wants to move up.
Yet it settles down with
the corpse.

The world, the real world
which is not like the waves,
neither it is like the clouds…
it struggles in the gap
the I and the frame
the light and the carcass
the permanent and the transient
poles apart, poles apart.

Things are falling apart
the hollow inside
finds its place
in every Self
doesn’t know how to heal;
to the intelligent heart, the simple ways
never ever appeal
the worlds therefore
damned on the stage
with stories and folklore
they vagabond in vagueness.

© supratik 2023
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