Rivulets that branch out,
Water that shines under the scattered sunlight,
The mud that always lies underneath,
On the lookout for the next storm
What's a story that's untainted?
Is it a story if it's crafted to perfection?
The soul, the juice, the essence—
'Tis all birthed from mistakes
Storyteller or a character?
A narrator that animates reality,
Or, an actor who's made to replicate?
Who are we? Are we real?
Weaving threads into patterns,
What about the invisible ones?
Control is but a comfort,
A candy to allay the soul.
YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoesíaJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them
