The drops were saying something,one day.
The tinkle answered to every with a yes.
The commotion of senses was manually stopped since
eyes were closed.
particles recruited only the relaxed sanity,verges blunt with ease in the flow.
The moulds are designed to be felt,acknowledged.
The rhymes of the patterns spoke of balance and unobjectionable,layers remained.
Tangled cliches got overthrew by the murmur still making their way.
The plates of soundless aroma,dropped from air
in air.
There are so many types
That I have seen –
Would you call me tired?
But then, it does make me tired....
They think they are safe
And that no one is watching.
So the quiet ones turn boisterous;
The boisterous burst into tears,
The angry smile indulgently,
And the kind metamorphosise
Into vicious animals.
I see quirks in unobjectionable characters,
And in the shady types
A quiet respectability.
But then, the variety –
The hundreds and thousands
And more, of strange faces,
Make me feel lost at times.
You might say I’m a quiet observer
Of my fellow people.
But everyday I see a face
More terrible than anyone else’s
Disillusion and fear
Revulsion and weariness
Jostle each other, and hollow eyes
Scare me, until I realise
I am looking into a mirror.
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