As I sprint through the dense fog,
And the green foliage surrounds me,
Ever-going and infinite like a blanket of comfort and warmth.
An oath to intercede,
A promise nonetheless finite,
But scars infinite.
I make my way through it all,
Knees grazed and conscience shattered,
Hands scarred and hair pulled out.
I reminisce at the evident difference,
Of the entity I was and that which remained.
No stance of similarity,
But a chance of disillusionment indeed.
The breath elevates and the mouth clogs,
My throat being the victim of suffocation,
It shrinks and disintegrates as if death won’t do us apart.
What do I wish for and what is it I fear?
Is it a curtained vision, or a revealing secret.
What is it I see or in fact just an illusion?
Of fear, failure, trials and tribulations,
Or even a blessing metamorphosing into a curse.
It is indeed not a theme, but a life of genres.
How could I speak when I throw my tongue out?
And I let the river flow and flood,
Over the finite lands and the infinite hearts,
Of those that are and those that were,
Along valleys unsaid and yonder distances,
To someone acquainted,
A heart once broken,
And a promise forgotten,
In existence through and through,
A lone traveler and the erratic old whistle.
– Imaan Siddiq