Few tufts of wind blow across the sky
pregnant with suggestion,
a stone on ground breaks it’s path
with every misdirection.
At once, the winds clear out
and all arguments fall flat in the face
In the second instant
without a hopeful trace,
into the murky vials of the unforseen,
the heart plunges again
there are no bounds then
to the stone’s cry of pain.
It’s not the stone
which chooses it’s fate
it’s an unseen ether
whose vileness does not abate.
The stone cringes
in search of peace
it knows not till now
a moment’s release.
There is no sadness
as the unknown,
for in it’s madness
it chills to the bone.
The stone is compliant
to the fancies of the wind
and to the dry earth
it remains pinned.
Nor move nor breathe
neither does it sigh in relief
the stone is fooled
into the farce belief
that there is a force
outside of it’s own
that causes the weeping
and the deep deep moan.
Will there be sunshine
in the land of the sun?
will we be soaring
or just trying to run?
What good does
self-obsession do?
When the stone can be
happy when left to!
The stone can see
the open skies
but it must have real,
not a potato’s eyes.
Let your heart fly
it has the strength
let doubt be diminished
to it’s power’s tenth!
There’s a ray of hope
in each moment
and it’s up to you
to grab it pin point!

Always remember, like Owen Wilson said in “The Darjeeling Limited

Francis: Dad’s bags aren’t gonna make it.

Sometimes, we just need to let go of things and jump onwards to the next journey. The only thing preventing us from rediscovering ourselves is ourselves.

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