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MOODS
When the wounded heart has nowhere to go,
nobody to console it, no shoulder to lean on,
and when drudgery becomes a part of life,
and even the flapping of a bird's wings hurts --
then all that is left is stark desolation.
Ideals of youth lie shattered...
The starving soul,
like a dry riverbed,
seeks a meaning to all this puzzle...
It looks like I made a pact with my fate,
somewhere in time,
that is being fulfilled now,
like a term behind bars amid gazes of hate.
Is there anybody who can tell me,
whether anything lasts forever,
in this in-congruent scheme of things;
or if any mood matters,
in this decaying vastness
Of bodies like mine?
Guess with the change of moods you had an answer to your very question.