A Float through Night Skies and Other Poems in Youth

The Senses

Nothing comes first

Then, comes the night

Envelops the bliss

With soft gracious thorns

Strings them up,

Hooked around their necks.

'It seems painless!' they cried,

'Yes, it does, doesn't it?'

'The pain is momentary, relief will come,'

So, they sit and stood; suspended aimlessly

Where would they go?

How will they go?

Where should they sing?

How will they cling?

Cling to what you may ask – a semblance

A semblance of what really – their being?

Being suspended aimlessly,

In what?

In what!

Sight cannot see the furthest of beauties

Hearing would give only second to truth

Their touch is a mere a moment of feel

The taste wouldn't bear crushing fragility

Their smell would find only minute simplicity

So why, why do we live?

Humanity – why do we live?

Aimlessly suspended – till death.