Borrowed for the Time Being


 

 

So hard to find this thing called, peace of mind.

Yet, so simple by natural design.

Until the personal touch of pleasure, seems easier to find.

Instinctual phrases,

innate, wanton, thoughts.

‘Have I disappointed?’

“Have I lacked care?’

‘Have I become the wanderer who lives life with a blank stare?’

Loaded down stale and stately, landscapes.

Cityscapes that blur all soulful questions…

All mysterious, mythical answers elude like

an abandoned rail-yard station…

promising communities providing traumas infidelity.

And, so, peace of mind,

an unrealistic propaganda for pampered paupers…

Words can say, what we should do.

Tranquility…

something borrowed, something old, something new.

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