Far away, somewhere, on a strange crowded beach,
Playing with golden grains while waves were washing my feet.
Looked around, why everyone was in hurry? Fighting for boats,
Why terror in their eyes and anxiety on their brow?
Got to know those boats would take them in some exquisite realms,
Where they would get the treasure of happiness and the key of dreams,
"But I won't be like them" I smirked,
"Mine will come, and it will go to grab the sun,
Mine will come, mine will come."
Now it's been awhile and I'm still on the beach,
Looking around, nobody is here, just a weird me.
But where is my boat? Sun is about to hide.
Won't I grasp it before it gets back to paradise?
Where is my boat? Is it lost somewhere?
Or am I living in delusion, mine is not made?
YOU ARE READING
lutalica [2018]
PoetryLutalica, (n) the part of your identity that doesn't fit into categories. Only word that perfectly defines me. Here, I am presenting a tapestry of poetry that I embroidered with the thread of metaphor.
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