Written by Alaro Basit
Like a wimp; when we were frail and naive,
when everything the old says is what we believe,
when our young skulls were filled with follies of relief.
We saw life as a fraction of paradise,
where there was abundance of fruits and pies
while our prime minds were chained in shackles of oblivion
and sheer series of imagery and mental paintings.
But as the scope grew wider,
so did our fog blinded eyes became clearer,
to see what seemed like a dungeon of daze
filled with prisoners yet to pay the debt of death.
Life is indeed a race on bruised bumpy tracks
with dreadful desperate faces and freckled feet
of people panting impatiently at a prickled pace.
A race void of rigid rules and referees,
programmed to run by the principle of peace by pieces,
for the whistle is blown at the instance of delivery,
to mark the beginning of immortal rivalry
that ends when each athlete crosses
his own designated finish line.