All everything existent is empty and meaningless,
and we just sit, seeking explanation,
to the countless questions we want to ask,
but can't seem to just let out...
Alone, huddled into a corner,
a snowball of cold empty frozen tears...
Unheard and never sought,
all in a while we end up losing touch...
You know your tears,
you stop knowing what is the reason?
Reason no longer seems reasonable...
Things have moved ahead,
far beyond our reach,and yet we are still there...
Still there, in that small cocoon,
a silken thread of tender feelings in which,
huddled is that small child,
whom we have kept, forcibly away from prying eyes,
trying to put up a brave-face...
Fiercely smiling, marching ahead,
trying in earnest to strike balance...
After all, easiest way out
is as a butterfly out of that cocoon,
a butterfly of many shapes,
sizes, colours, and styles,
each beautiful to its own beholder,
yet yet, for some butterflies,
things don't or haven't gone smooth,
sometimes cocoons get too tough,
and somehow that small little beauty dies,
forgotten inside, killed by its own impositions...
And all thats out,left to be judged by the facets of mystery,
all that can be sung of in Psalms of Life,
are just blackened mounds of coffins,
and the epitaphs of pain...
All that is left in this morning world is,
dead little butterflies and moving mounds of lifeless mirth...
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju