The mask is
gradually
slipping
from
sainthood,
a shadow
slowly moving
over wisdom
We are not
the people
I thought
we were;
the days
are not
the ones I
thought
they would
be
Hours are
almost full,
fine waves
of artistry
impregnate
seconds of doubt
which empty
itself
to
give way to longing
© Sanchita C Text and Sketch
