Slinging scribbles

The world started with a womb and it grew bigger, From the words 'given' to 'make', relationships were made, Solitary confinements were reduced and yet pursued, As we knew, so did we forgot, What's for us and what we could accumulate, Eventually to the need, we all succumb, That's the only hay that we make. Its a meaningless trail, to find meaning and mean the findings, For we find nothing but a vapid play of emotions and drives, No cry will last, no smile will ever fade, Its a psyche's call, cycle byfar, Till the last breath and then again, the womb till it grows bigger......

Sitting on a leaf, thin, light, weak, not me, its the leaf, Its tender, carrying a baggage, treading cautiously, not the leaf, It might break, it does; it might fall, it doesn't, its just me, Breaks at monotony, suffers at the stroke of impatience, but its the leaf that guards, not me. Stories that have turned old, experiences that have turned sour, Nothing that surprises anymore, not to the leaf, not to me.  The tragedies of future have already been eroded by insecurities, As the leaf is living, leading, carrying, driving my speck. The speck is just a synonym for space and time, Tiny yet a black hole, clinging to the leaf like a body to a soul, Let's name the leaf, shall we? Or is it just a mystery for both, 'you' and me. There is a sudden euphoria, a strange mirth in floating and flying with a leaf, There is no achievement and yet there is accomplishment. Its me and my leaf, or perhaps its just me.