The ones and zeros can’t capture all the essence,
They can’t describe condition of your heart:
This subtle, soft, majestic effervescence
Of fragile matter, yet to become a form of art –

To come alive, and breathe, and move the feelings
Of those who can live and be alive.
It’s frankly, difficult, among the human beings,
To find those who does more than just survive.

We’re buried in this dynamic clutter,
Too busy to step out of the scheme.
All the devices can’t help us being smarter,
Without turning into someone’s living memes.

An artist has to burn, destroying minds,
While painting real, not just prettiest of things.
We only have this life, so make it count,
The beauty’s found where the questioning begins.


Spore thoughts

Caused by mid-afternnon ennui at a desk job:

Thoughts turn to spores, to dust,
Sporadically and irreversibly, if you must.
Hanging suspended like the last word,
Dissimilate into space with a silent accord.