Blind circles.

All sizes of noisy circles,

Childishly coloured,

Crossing uncertain boundaries,

Just one step ahead;

The canvas melting in the wall,

The bubbles are all getting lost,

It is not gay, what should be gay,

But is tired and rugged,

Scratching the eyeballs to cement,

Decorated with slim ornaments,

Going almost blind to itself alone.


Less people are dying now a days,

No large bombs, no wars,

The world is verbally chaotic,

Audibly silent.

Is he saving up burial lands

For people to build square boxes,

Or rectangular, for their progeny?

Is it the silence of storm?

Is it before or after?

Is it the beginning or the middle?

How far is the end?

Is there a get together,

Nearer to the gate of doom?

Can we question the fingers that pulled the trigger?

Can we question the saints?

Will we care to question?

Isn’t doom simple and greedless,

Selfless and oneness?

Is there really any END.