Lovelorn.

Melancholy of music
playing along the senses,
mind seems to sink
in the glut of possiblity.

Chances that occurred,
chances that didn’t;
but the thoughts plundered
without missing any.

Stuck in a cubicle
with moving walls,
converging the odds
to get a thing good.

Spell of reality is broken,
existence starts to begin
in the world beyond,
in the world surreal.

The day marks
the oblivion with oneself,
but a part of us
still remains anchored.

Rooting the reality,
building the walls broken;
its the heart that remains anchored,
to build a new shore, one day.

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