Living death in self-reflection: A poem 

I resurrect within the garden of a poem 

as I die with the fragrance of its futility 

Its words both burying and exhuming a neglected aspiration, 

even as they are juxtaposed and jinxed by oblivion 

as if destiny never cared for its most colourless stones 

I feel like a child wandering in stupor 

in the mirrorwork of circumstance 

left to ponder only in self-reflection 

 as if that introversion was a compulsion 

After all, there seems no other occupation in a prison 

fraught with the diminution of helpless, hopeless honesty 

I wonder if there is any light left to die in 

Simply because there is so much darkness 

in the looming obviousness of glaring necessity 

of a mind, that understands its own predicament 

 I did not even think of overestimating this poem 

For I am culpable for the fact that there is no logic in its wisdom 

I have also never fooled myself about these ideals 

that are mere butterflies that fly, but have no freedom!