Of Nothing

When nothing stirs and it feels the time has deserted the world 

Borders are blurred, eyes feel lazy to vision any fruitful dreams

There are no more stories for now; the mind babbles still

Speaking of new adventures with the birth of a sober morning

This orb is not made of glass for it to be shattered by foolishness

Mundane work anaesthetise the mind, one can only argue

Uneven that is, languages extremely trimmed for the occasion

Unwillingly welcome and accommodate those thoughts

Being philosophical in a morally miserly time is embarrassing

So, the entire perception has been inverted- eyes try to adjust

Thoughts run foolish and scared for they are perturbed

Communication evaporate, and the chatterers still continue


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