“where are we?”
he asks with trepidation
hesitation, suffocation.
“when will we reach?”
you see, u ask when,
when you don’t know where.
then again, its always/only
a matter of time.
“where are we going?”
too late, too soon, too much.
too cruel.
sands between the fingers,
grains among the feet.
an oasis, or a mirage;
your hell to keep.
silenced by the very air
that bids you speak,
to look all around
finding audience; unbound.
yet a mirage cannot listen,
just as much an oasis
brings no salvation,
only temptation.

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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 )

Connecting to %s