Dimwitted slaves of fallacy, living lives of constancy,
Living a wasted legacy, of pretentious ecstasy.
Blandness of memory, bordering on mediocrity,
Surrendering harmony, bound in affected poesy.
Favouring grandeur over brilliance, blind to kindred innocence,
Grimly face their hindrance, that meet them at every entrance.
Mulling in warm water, their lives they wish to alter.
In meadows they wish to saunter; in gardens they wish to loiter.
Martyring these desires, they are worldly liars,
They run on rubber tires, but dream of wild fires.
Within the grips of destiny, which they call priority,
And treat with severity, toiling for eternity.
Forging dreams and ambitions, they leave behind the formation,
Of the silent assumptions, made with pluck and gumption.
Assumptions romanticized, rose-tinted and hypnotized,
Dreamily paralyzed and personalized.
They think that they know of words of long ago,
Vainly try to show they’re fast when they’re slow.
Fast is not the speed, at which they want to breed,
Planting worthless seed, of fake religious creed.
Life’s steady impermanence, it is meager tolerance,
Of people of no consequence, brimming with insolence.
At long last they understand, the pointlessness of work in hand,
How they regret those grains of sand, which coyly left their hand.
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