Time Stops For No One
Someone stuck in the tunnel
dug in the desolate desert of deprivation,
doesn’t know what conceived in notion
constitutes the rationale of the thing
people of perception define
as the art of living, etched by elusive mirage,
in the free ambit of lively sunshine,
flooding the oasis of sanguinity.
Survival struggle pushes desperately
the languished life into the dark abyss,
breaks the fragile frame of the fleeting future,
the shards are thrown as the moments unlived,
in the debris of abject rejection,
unable to rise from the clasping chasm,
even if arduously tried.
Failing to find the escape route in the dark,
can’t kindle the candle of hope
to light up the unseen elusive end
of the gloomy tunnel of time,
but survival instinct lingers within bleak confine,
motivates to crawl frenziedly to the illusive future.
The meadow of florid translucent mind,
clear of convoluted shadows of confusion,
cast by the jagged thicket of ambiguity,
glows in the transit of fleeting moments,
rippling in the cascade of time,
latticed with the momentary luster
of the passing rays of sunset spectrum.
The sensitive passion, sparkling secretly
with the sequins of ever transient euphoria,
configures with evanescent radiance of certainty
the undeniable rational context of perception,
conveying everything has time to come and go,
for time stops for no one.
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