On the road we live,
And beside we die…
We lay rotten until a storm picks us by…
Seems like the journey
Is half as healthy,
Thinking back on how useless wealth is…
Seems like only rich that we get is
The gravel on the tar
And the mind that is empty…
Seems like an ancient doorway closing,
Vaulted the secrets of immortals posing…
Its been a ride,
Where we all are at posing,
Doing things we shouldn’t
And still drinking our throat pipe dry…
High enough on hills you might be climbing,
But the birds hunt down
The tired and broken,
There is no life when the wild sun is scorching,
It all ends in a dried shriveled coffin…
And there we all pry,
Our ancient lies…
© Karthik Adithya Singaraju
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