All stories ever told,
Could be heaped
And set to flames,
For lies weren’t bigger,
Or facts, more obscure.

We were made to believe in stories
While constantly flitting between
Bildungsromans and Kunstlerromans
And a bagful of Stream-of-Consciousness.
I’m here, and then two miles away,
Plunging in with you,
Or maybe saving myself;
How can you tell, when Fantasy turns into an Adventure?
Not with dragons in the bargain
But living itself, seems fantastical,
And surviving into the next hour, an adventure.
I could weave Romances out of the Mysteries
That lurks in the shadows
Of the haunted castles of your mind,
But Magic exists in bizarre states
Without any spells to wave our wands to.

Our stories were never linear,
Or in flashbacks or futures.
We were colliding to find our resurrection
In the chaotic mess, with hopes of ‘happily-ever-after’s –
Only to wake up on the stone cold floors of Realism,
Dusting away the remains from another page
Of a story, plodding somewhere
To merge with some other tale.

10 August 2016

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s