It’s a page I’ve got,
I’ve got to cross-check because it’ll disappear,
Like the time has passed and that, which will,
To the point it ever was, till the point it ever will.
Blue, green and brown, yes, they’re colours,
Sky, forests and a boat, yes, they’re objects,
Your imagination, my experience, put them anywhere,
But it shall die but still make an expression, a meaning.
Long due, ever a longing, still a longing,
To write something and to be let know who wrote it,
Oh! Why He wrote it and in what circumstances,
Yet, so many chances faded, and nobody did play their chances.
Oh! They fade away – for them, for me,
As I sat down and watched the whole world fade away,
Bit by bit, piece by piece – to never be accepted,
To never be known – never to be bereaved as it never existed.
To be fair – it never did. It was better in imagination,
One where things thought were to be believed as they would happen,
Now that they do, they’re just circumstantial,
Happened to be forgotten, to be demeaned.
Am I here to change anything?
No.
I am here to first – have, then – think, then – believe,
Then – lose, then – accept, then – fight and then – live.
Am I furious?
No.
I’m nowhere close to exercising my control to express,
I guess, I never was. I just did what I had to do.
I just got summoned and things got personal,
I had to respond in poetry, as they won’t listen otherwise.
I had to tell them that it was me who was there before and it was still me,
It’s all about me, (if), then come and talk to me.
