The philosopher lived by the lightness
of his thoughts
and died under the weight
of his theory.
How does all that movement turn
into something so unmoving?
His neighbor down the street
has neither a light thought
nor a weighty death.
He withers away like a leaf
when the wind isn’t talking.
How many ways are there
to walk through an ephemera’s day?


by Jay Kasturi

Other poems of KASTURI (30)

Comments (1)

I cant even say why but i loved this poem!