This wondrous world of insignificant things,

Made to look bigger to fret and worry while others see nothing of importance. 

Things are deceptive and cunning and sweet and venom,

Drawn from and to the same that tread its weary surface.

Who comes here now and where will they go?

Questions of every extravagance to fill in the gaps of nothing,

Built from dusty castles and towers of books and imaginations run stale long ago,

Those that trudge here with self-made shackles and blinded by colour so bright,

Though they are colour-blind to hues of grandeur and reality. 

We see not but we stumble in the darkness of our minds and creation.

Perhaps if we turn enough times the cycle will complete and restart,

We write into blank spaces to try and answer the countless doubts we need to know. 

We’ll write ourselves into oblivion so vast we’ll stretch till it snaps.

But we’ll run out of ink.

Soon enough.

Achintya Srinivas, 11 ISC

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