Lights are getting dim, the eyes of the sun are getting blind.
Jostling and running, searching and hoping to find.
Life's a mystery within a mystery, unfolding with every tale of history.
We breathe, we feel, we touch, we taste, we hear.
Year after year, and month after month.
We conceive ideas and yet they fly away like a moth.
Days pass and hours elapse.
But a few seconds could be the difference, while running life's laps.
Are success and failure illusions or mere polar opposites?
Do they take us forth and back or they just brothers in sync.
Each person has a sea of difficulty.
Heads First and feet in the air, we take the plunge.
Diving till we hit the depths and all we taste is salty.
Hence we hold no rights to decide or judge.
Tick goes every man's clock.
We labour till beads of sweat display our work.
We look forward to tomorrow, fanning embers of hope.
Our fate dangles on it, whistling swings of tarzan's rope.
Buried in the crux of our mind is the instinct to survive.
To never back down, to never give in, we buzz on like bees in a hive.
Is a man to compete with himself?
Or to knock others off with words or swords just to complete his shelf?
Then is the man in context termed helpless?
Does his inevitable end highlight his actions and brand his activities senseless?
Behind the curtain of every heart is a little library.
A catalogue of every thought and reason.
The hub of the human person.
Bustling like pistons of a Ferrari's engine.
The acts of today sprout up tomorrow.
Watered by words and intentions, to harvest produce of joy or sorrow.
Since life is most likely an entwined game of chess.
We brood over our next move, and its effect we try to guess.
Checkmate and its time up.
With life's trickery and misrepresentation, no one wants to be a flop.