We rarely get second chances. Life plans no mock exams
Our hopes are trapped into rat races
making sure we shall never escape.
The infinite is a homemade illusion
we are all born and die with
a charming self-loss symphony,
concerted at first, then instantly interrupted
with nothing left either to lose or to win...
When we believe in fairy-tales - we are mere choosers
too foolish to question,
too proud to suspect anything,
too desperate to doubt their impeccable plots,
the wicked gambling of fallen angels,
their repenting grace ’n’ sore scars on their broken wing bones;
Too much togetherness will eventually mistake loneliness
for a better alternative
One which idealizes companionship
but does fail to pursue it
and redefine our must-have moments.
All truths be told, all subtle rhymes revealed,
We are one-dimensional projections
Unraveling the incepted clues to recreate
a less distant space, a more synchronized ordeal.