The Surreal Sight
Looking into the yawning chasm
trying to find the gem long lost
The shattered shambles of the sky
in the backscatters of the running river
The surreal sight:
throttles the medieval poet;
brings back unwelcomed nostalgia,
a forsaken evocation.
In an attempt to fathom the waters
has she fathomed out a truth unwritten?
In her hand is the pen,
but do the words listen to her?
Did she ask to be born,
nor the river did ask to flow
How would she end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
The surreal sight:
its voice echoes in her headspace;
How would you end the trifling fiction
the strings in the hands of the unknown?
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