I don’t understand what is illusion, what is truth.
For everything that is created, gets destroyed;
Ain’t there any material, indestructible?
For if melting into trash is truth,
then such cheap is the standard of realism.
And if something remains constant,
then what is it?
The soul that holds no proof
to save its identity from being crushed,
or to uphold its dignity being buried alive.
Some say souls are the only constants,
mysteriously hiding inside cocoons of transcendentalism;
others term it as blind-belief.
I wait for the stars to visit my vision
and hence I often catch hatred for day-sky,
hardly realizing that stars never run away, from the blanket that veils this earth,
and then I sit here, trying to differ sunlight and moonbeam,
with the radiance which both produce,
to write their differences in
the verses of my poetry,
being ignorant to the fact,
that somehow both are
all the same, but is vividly
disguised for the welfare
of each sides of this
And I don’t understand what is truth, what is illusion.