The ever mysterious thing called Life is all about
diminishing , downsizing one’s own dreams ,
especially the favorite ones ;
It is all about clouding , contaminating ,
poisoning gradually the most pristine pictures that
the imaginative, restive mind can ever gestate .
With time, the dream decays to debris,
eventually compelling us to hit the rock bottom.
Finding no other way out we become sweepers ,
full of hope , eager to clean the debris again.
From the dream-dust we create the dreams afresh,
The ones very different from their predecessors .
At times we remain the same, the dreams revolve around us
When the dreams come to a standstill,
Time takes note of the heritable traits ,
Belonging to us and our dreams;
The life moves on.