Fictitious Land

I am a seafarer,
travelling in a huge ship.
I am exhausted.
The sight of land seems 
very distant to me.
But it's not what troubles me the most... 
The time plays cruel games.
It works like melted clocks
of Dali's persistence of memory.
The clocks are melted,
and the sea bugs are consuming them.

I see a land.
Oh! It is a fictitious shore.
I don't know, 
how many fictitious shore 
I have to cross
before touching ground.
I want to see sea waves 
washing the shore.
I want to reach home.
Travelling enthralls me
but I catch sea sickness soon...


These islands are magical work of slant of light.
Magic dissipates into thin air
Just like we all do.
Maybe we all are living on fictitious lands.
Our foundation shifts.
Some characterstics of our core are always transient.

I sailed on...
I was the captain of ship.
However slowly I developed other profound talents
Lonliness drives you into poetry.
Poetry is a magical and spurious work of syllables.
In this rhyme, nothing is real.
Words are transient.
They too fritter away. 
Debilitated.
Exhausted.
Enervated.
I reach the real shore
Now there is sand all around me
And fictitious water is infront of me...