reflections

real reflections turn into mannequin models
and wait waits on and on

a world of made will never breathe
as long the purchased soul we dawn
this loaned image is not a world of born.

a poem

i used to be a story
mystifying people
with my existence
leaving them
alone
wondering what’s at the end
with questions
lots of misguiding answers
at times
this story had different
colors
colors of seasons
doodling of emotions
interest
in someone else’s life
someone
completely irrelevant
this story had it all

but then
it all became short
straight-forward
no bullshit
no colors
nothing
there was no one
to doodle
there wasn’t any mystery
just things
to ponder upon
words, that don’t tell
but ask
what is it
that you make of us
not secretive
but not revealing anything
either

& all of a sudden
the change
sorted them out
the ones who understood
the truth
of those words
stayed
and others who looked out
for thrill in the stories
swayed away

for that story has
now become
a poem.