Stories are imaginations from
facts,
facts derived from stories.
The link never dies.
Form of life lies
in facts and fictions
through croaking words,
memories travel like a nomad
on the lost-and-found stage,
the dais collapses in the oceans
of habits,
more of same habits
and surfaces again
with a hope to be written down
and trapped afresh, as if new, in
the books
whose pages flutter like a
calendar,
the sole object that the ceiling
fan
excites in a gloomy room.
In the midst of modern living
imagination is also hijacked,
dark circles prevail around
every pair of eyes
that sees like a mastered horse,
disillusioned by the sounds of
gallops
as free will.
This continues in the pool of
life
where the imaginative animal
dies like a frog.
Facts and fictions keep on
insisting, arguing, back-chatting
whether the frog is actually a
toad
and if it is really dead or
living.
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