Lines

The lines extend across a sheet of paper

Diverging through the corners they encompass the margins-

Margins of life

Where one feels its holiness

And destruction.

The lines form images, easy images; routes, easy routes

These routes carry us along and all we would need to pay is our trust

And compromises.

And so, we go about it for it feels easier, untangled, smooth

And hence, dies the sketch of our mind

That would have found its own path, tracing its own images

Outside the backdoor of our life.

Ignored lay these sketches

That instead of following might have laid a new path,

The new possibilities, the new history.

And soon these are cremated

In none other than the fire of

Our own resignation.