Apr 20, 2009

A fugitive to life.

A ceaseless train of people
mechanically runs, like insects
chasing their goal, always trailing
a path defined by a universal law
in a milieu,
textured by its palpable soul
bowing in submission.

Robots floating in space
like particles of dust
invading the atmosphere,
where a starlit night
sheds but paltry luminosity
into its ambience
yet of its penury, is unabashed.

Creativity a hostage, becomes
to cringing servility
like a mind, trapped
in its mediocrity
dares not venture beyond
its constrained space.

A fugitive on the run
haunted by his illusions
having forsaken the truth
becomes lodged in the web of deceit,
a fragile film
dissolves into nothingness
and forlornly he watches
his ship lying aground.

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