In the middle of seasons
where numbness lays,
the dormant devil speaks today.
Some may call you drier than sand
to some you may seem wetter than rain,
Same may not pass you even as human,
some may call you humane.
It is nothing but the way you see.
There is no definition of you,
You are no type, symmetry or pattern.
From men like free birds to,
men like dedicated workaholics.
From the bubbly neighborhood women,
to the lifeless gaze of intellect
is what you are made of.
From a world yet to be discovered,
to the world, a long lost one,
From intricate tales of grand achievers,
to an ever smiling flower vendor outside.
A temple is what you’re made of.
I wonder, why do we have to talk the same,
like the same and feel the same
as a pre-determined order of civilized,
I wonder why we must result into the same,
when the entire cause is different.