Life is a strange gift, isn’t it?
It passes by determining and swift,
Runs its course like a flowing river,
Decreases in number like arrows in an archer’s quiver,
In a blink of an eye people die,
Their entire existence passes by,
Their last promises remain unfulfilled,
Their last dreams remain dreams,
As that urge to live ceases its screams,
And yet we shrug death off,
Treating it like a far off foe,
Like a slow, injured doe,
And so we are unable to grasp the beauty of living,
Amongst all the things that we take for granted,
The magic of life that flows within us,
Is largely unappreciated and treated with fuss,
For the frown upon a rich man’s face even after a hearty meal,
And the smile that adorns the lips of a poor orphaned child,
Describes in a great deal,
The ordeal that we pretend to go through,
Without stopping to realize,
That it is very unwise,
To curse the day for being bad,
To scream at others when we feel angry or sad,
When in truth, we are wasting seconds, which we could live,
Creating foul memories instead of the need to forgive,
And so we live, 
Dull, grim and blue,
Living without a clue,
As to when all this will end,
We fail to realize,
That not all mistakes, we can mend,
Not because they can’t be mended,
But due to the fact that our time here has ended.

Categories: POEMS


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