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


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