I think I loved you once upon a whispers dream.
I think I cared for you more than I thought,
More than it really must seem.
Because what is love to a seed?

A seed with no real intentions.
With no real expressions, but its expected
To grow.

To grow, in the ash painted battlefield,
Where the war set its claim.
The field you fled from, yet your spout remained.
A seed without its sower? A farm without its grower,
but somehow it continued to maintain.
In the beep pits of soot, it set's its proclaims
However, without its owner, it was all said in vein.
I'm sorry, let me refrain.

Refrain from expressing too much because I think it was all too late.
Refrain from expressing it all because I think you were my soul mate.

Rattling a few words
when I go to bed, wake up,
before and after after meals
is not that bad but whose listening?


It's true that whatever is seen is a miracle,
But what's not clear is who saw it first?
For that Fellow must have known
better than every other.


In the beginning we knew nothing,
we have everything now,
We still know nothing.


We are left with literature,
our developed cognition can't help us,
but question the the authenticity, the origin.


A debate with 2000 sides,
where you fall depends largely
Upon where you were born.


Is it unfair
that other than the winning team
all others were born in darkness?
If there is a winning team.


It's only reasonable to trust in what if,
and bet your money on one
knowing your one
is one of the 2001 possible outcomes