Here comes a high point,
Between two trenches,
Reeking with depression,
What went high, came down as low,
As slow as realizations go,
What went low, took stead,
And shot up the towered meter,
Of rapt attention to the flowery and hearty.

What comes when,
Is a matter of state,
The lines so surreal,
The borders almost invisible,
All from the same land,
The trenches and the towers -
Formed from the fertile parts,
From a now sieved brain.

What once stood as pain,
And what once was peace,
Interlap and confuse,
Terrorize and torment,
Peace becomes pain,
And otherwise -
That which stands the test of time,
Peace will all that be.

Smug in love,
Yet hurt in denial,
Of a person long gone,
And another newly found.
How can a heart which isn't physical,
Be broken in two?
Needless imagination,
And discovery of a hapless self,
Dried of all its soul,
Yet looking for it in this wide world,
With no yield but in yours,

An impression first made,
Of a person unwanted.
But as phases fly by,
And hands get closer,
The hearts speak the same tongue,
Inseparated by the force of invisibility,
A force we choose to call love,
It could be called paper for all it could be,
But our human vocabularies just ran low

The awkwardness settled to dust over time,
It persists in yet another form,
When not present and when not there.
Some stranger in your life,
Matters more than one can alone bear.

Imperfections that are spat upon,
Imperfections shown to face,
Little things we believe matter less,
Little things become an inflated mess.
There's more to me than I do know,
Self discovery - alone.
Unshared and unlived,
It will ever be in my convenience.

The rise up and the fall down,
Never ceasing,
At this given minute,
It's kinetic spirit,
Propels your story,
As a tale for the future or a memory in the past,
When everything goes through,
The beings once inseparable,
Once unidentifiable except for the whole,
Becomes aware of their singularity,
And their selfish beliefs,
Once a thing of hearts and minds,
Becomes the ordeal for fate to decide.

The peak unnoticeable,
The descent unfelt,
Sadness looms here,
In that meet and in that look,
Because we're ever ignorant -
Of that being our last,
The faces lose shape over fading memories,
Harder to recollect the harder one tries.

This being my low before my forthcoming high,
The latter of which my aspirations are nigh,
The feeling of being lost,
In someones memory,
And getting back to being a stranger,
Already allures the incisive purposelessness,
Another blow and another pondering,
If this is all about wondering,
This so called journey of mine,
Jutting ahead like a broken trumpet in the sea,
Not in right shape nor at the right place,
Ever so lost and not to be found.
To be lost or found?
Or stop this now forming wound?