On the move. Movement. Motion.
And then, there is
A small puddle of calm-
Like an accustomed darkness
In the flicker of a candle-light
In the distance.
There is laughter
Like a soft breeze that
Frustrates the still stillness in the air.
We have always maintained that
“There will be time. There will be time.
A time for you. And a time for me.
And time for a hundred indecisions.”
And that time, is now-
Knocking at the door,
There is the cold calculation of time,
And the wavering, wafting images
That plead to defy the ticking of the clock.
Cold calculations always win-
Perfect in their perfection,
Deadly in their accuracy.
And once more, the wafting mind
Begins its slow, trembling journey,
Picking up its pace,
Losing track of a much demanded stillness-