THe pursuit for my soul is futile.
When I lost the 'I' in me.
Where do I rove for it?
It ranged around like a rambler.
Striving to retrace its bygone past.
In quest for its ultimate abode of glory days.
Where in spring once it twittered as a bird.
Soaring high in the firmament and swaying on branches with its companions
When fluttered joyously as a butterfly with kaleidoscopic wings
When the beetles hovered around her to win her love
When life was all mirth and merriment
Ignorant of the awaited spiteful days ahead
To mutilate her joys to woes.
Oh!if those departed days could be reanimated;
Alas! Those splendid days have pined
Its angelic infancy(gratitude to wordsworth who coined this word)cannot be reiterated.
Its prime rosy youth cannot be reawakened
If those luminous days could rekindle my soul
But TIme is craftyand never allow us to revert to antiquity
It only grapples me with the gruesome present
And make me writhe.
Who can revive those yesteryears in this world?
It now realises that reality us crabby,yet a verity
Hence it retreated its steps,impregnated and replenished the 'I' in me.
The lost soul now the realistic me.-----