Sunday, 2 June 2013


For the eyes that may see,
For those who may listen,
For some who may read,
Ain't everything is just as it is,

Though spring may have passed,
Come the summer with sunshine,
But inside there,
Nothing much,
A rotten apple,
Crushed to insignificance,
By none other than worms.

Flowers are all for the eyes,
The smell of a fresh bouquet,
Lingering in the air,
And even when the sun has set,
And the darkness comes,
And the promise of tomorrow,
May seem never to return,

The day has come,
When one has failed,
Because none other,
Than what one has done,
Unto oneself and one only,
But one vows, and never again.

If only, there is another chance,
Of undoing the yesterdays,
And doing today the best of one.
If and only if,
But that is just a pointless qualm,
In endless depth,
Of an unbecoming today.

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