A strange catapulted wing
Striding from one petal to another
On days beaming with pride
yet besieged by the night time snide
The fleeting gratifying lightness
but the doubt ever so consuming
which of the two is real
the gliding sorrow or the gleeful blooming?
Torn apart under this giant paradox
clambers the lonely hidden self
perpetually chasing for its patented tag
is it the mighty valor or the worn out slag ?
gently emerges a space, devoid of such duality
the momentary is-ness, withholding no entity
how does one cave in to this humbling presence
of a life without any real essence?
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