Dome Of A Cynic
I dwell in the World of mystiques and truth,
Except, it was what it was, and is not now.
The dome of death is where I reside,
In a world that’s no longer mine.
A world that boasts of ends and laments,
A world which I wish to leave, so dearly,
If and only if my heart had the choice,
But then, the irony…
We, the most intelligent of all,
Who were shaped from nothing more than dust (which is not ours in the first place).
We stand worthless before the raging storm, the slashing waves, the beasty rains.
For we were made to know, but no to rule,
We were made to dream, but not to catch,
We were only made to come, and to leave,
A misery that was not our choice.
If this is existence, then why exist?
If this is a dream, then why not wake up?
Why is it that we insist on life?
When it is nothing more than a journey,
To the destiny of death.
Suddenly, out of the grey, the koo of a koel,
Issues from the nearby tree,
Which itself sways with objectionable glee,
It sways from the breeze which blooms up roses,
Who look up into the sky, outlined with sanctity,
which covers my dome.
The dome which always was, and will be,
A site for dreams to dwell,
Undisturbed by the death of a cynic.
For once again, the realization dawns upon me,
That the dome of life, is where I reside.