there is a certain stickiness,
in this - life.
why, look at this yesterday,
that had stuck so closely to today,
which shall do the same to tomorrow.
did they not tell you all days are similar,
monday, tuesday,sunday,saturday, anyday.
all people are the same - all people,
he, she, all of them, who, not them.
same are all tasks, and routine,
this and that, just like that.
dont be deluded by the changing hues
of the day,
of the moving hands of the clock,
of the greying of hair,
of lines on forehead.
Look deep, deeper and you would find;
surreptitious in its appearance,
glib in its talk - Futility.
A certain kind of refusal to acknowldge,
what is glaring one in the face as May's sun and
burning the skin of one's neck.
A pile of habits and routines of work and otherwise
You have hid in, Ostrich-like.
Too unfamiliar, you say?
Unchartered sea? El dorado?
Fantasy? Too risky?
Who can predict the future?
Well then, that's why I say
There is a certain stickieness..
