Pic : Self

Sometimes
life itself,
seems
like a poem,

with secrets
hidden,
in between
two breaths,

every happening,
a metaphor
explained
by time,

happiness
resplendent,
in endings
that rhyme,

and somewhat
filled,
with tearful
partings,

when written
sentiments,
for poetic justice
have to be erased,

extempore
beginnings,
that lead to
unthought of ends,

and planned
content,
often midway
seems to rebel,

the pen often
as perplexed,
as the ink
that flows,

the paper
as temporary,
as the raindrops
momentary might,

and yet
in the end,
everything mingles
to meet the sea,

and though
i believe,
i am often
the writer,

but yet often
I know,
the hand
is not mine,

sometimes
life itself,
seems
like a poem to me.

Β© vidursahdev 2018

16 thoughts on “Sometimes

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