We all have been there,
alone and desolated.
With a mutual disregard
even for the infinite tones of the sea.
Counting the uneven days,
when a bowl of unexplainable rage
was refrigerated within the spaces
between the soul and darkness.
The numbers kept us hanging.
The fat man and the little boy,
slipped past some fucking numbers,
leaving behind annihilated dreams
sublimating to the zenith of a nuclear cloud.
The beginning of a countdown
is the recipe for your destruction.
do you feel it?
they couldn’t create a time machine,
it was way to difficult
for the whole world to travel
ahead of or losing the time.
but some created wonderful art and music
or wrote a book and the barriers of time travel
were shattered long ago unnoticed by anyone.
Would you rather
float in chaos,
and untimely end
or surrender to the complex
and the orderly life
with a clock showing your definite end.
the fun part is we always choose one of them,
but never even notice, that’s life.
I sat on the spiraled staircase,
waited to spiral down inside
my life ,
then I knew
like it has no beginning,
it is never ending
and this poem,
*Experimented a bit, Try reading this poem first from the very first line and then from the very last line in reverse order*. Do comment whether good, bad or disgusting 😀