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Time is a river flowing from the past;

Colours are but reflections of our thoughts;

Sounds ring in our ears to keep us aware

of life passing by, and approaching death. (4)

News is what happens to people we know not;

What runs in our minds is undocumented;

Vague dissatisfaction is fairly rampant;

They call it as Existential Crisis. (8)

Random thoughts invade my mental space;

Most, not all, to dustbin are consigned;

Rest I type on a legal-sized paper;

Save them as seeds to be germinated. (12)

The soil in the dustbin has humified;

Ideas on yellowed paper lie dormant;

I fear roots and shoots would not sprout;

Even if I irrigate seeds with my blood. (16)

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#germination #irrigate #existentialcrisis

#undocumented