Tuesday, December 25, 2012

a sight

 long grass with converging tip giving some
Space to brownish mud peeping here and there
Just when my sight could reach reddening sky
The field had already affirmed my beliefs

The bigger we become to the outside world
Narrower we become within ourselves
Our thoughts instead of accepting more diversity
Starts converging to our false pride

And the gleam in the eyes of the pride
Perhaps makes everything else secondary
But still often the filthy brownish mud
Tries to clean our vision but only to get  rejected.

1 comment:

  1. its nyc its not about the words or sentences you jot down
    its about the idea,,,behind them( as u explained to me)


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