We tend to insult the woes

with words that sound similar

to what I have been used to

for weeks,

but it doesn’t last

as long as we would like,

does it?

Why do we surround our thoughts,

our metaphorical symbols,

our fragrant voices,

in a circle that was not meant to be linear…

I want your truth without the lies,

but even if you do lie,

I can hear it in your voice,

I can see it in your eyes.

It’s perfectly sorted to be like this,

it’s perfectly sorted to be this way,

surrounded in a shroud of tropes,

the way petals mutate with the stem

when different seasons take a stroll,

the answer is there,

we are certain to fall some day,

but a new bud will bloom into a new flower

and it just starts all over again –

the cycle of karma.


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