We have been told, that each of us has a manifest destiny, And that our most futile action, would be to attempt mutiny, That fate has drawn up for each of us, a fixed path, And straying from which we
We pluck fluffy balls of cotton from so many different plants, Having no idea, which would end up in towels, mops, and pants, But every tuft itself, shorn of identity, has no consequence to dread, Caring even less, that many
The first thought when you hear choice, is the existence of options, A chance at qualifying the rationale for a decision you make, But despite all that, some things were never meant for conventions, Because, in matters of the heart,
One of the few things noticed while walking in a maze, Is how earnestly the next turn is beseeching you gaze, Although you already know this isn’t any race, Yet, you fervently want to just get out of the place.
It is surprising how two little words can play with your life, Like frozen butter being teased by a serrated knife, They hang on at the tip of a person’s tongue, And then vanish like the tune of a paean