Hell, we are fooled,
Yet again,
By our ticky old foe.
He’s writing this text,
With his touch on the screen.
He’s watching the blank space,
Like a red bar waiting to turn blue.
Curious he sounds,
Blinking his eyes and smiling.
He’s fooling others,
Thinking he’s fooling.
To change his destiny,
He rather got guts.
But, he’s waiting,
To end this poem.
He relieves off his words,
Sprinkle it all across virtual space.
Still, believe someone’s there to watch,
And hids in himself a sham.
He’s admant,
To not to end this poem.
Because he’s not imaginative,
And like those poets in the ocean.
He hails from mud,
That’s why he knows nothing.
He is just walking,
And fooling everybody.
For all that he sees,
It’s all there for good, he knows.
And yet he keeps seeing,
The good at all times.
At some word, this poem needs to end,
He knows that too.
Still he keeps on composing,
Like it’s creating a meaning.
He was an empty bowl,
Dried by intense sun, his water.
Nobody is there to slap him,
For all curiousness he had.
Maybe he had lost it all,
That’s why he is just composing it right.
And isn’t in a mood to end this all,
He is a lonely basketball player.
He is clapping,
Maybe some curiousness still awaits.
He is all there for himself,
He points it all this time.
All remixed, replenished once again,
In an utter new time.
For a memory he had hasn’t faded,
It’s vivid like a volcano fire.
He’s panning out,
To take a flight, rather walk.
And forget everything he once had,
To let not devoid anymore.
He convinces his peers,
To shut this poem off.
And he won’t post this poem,
Because bokeh is never fake!
