Pleasant Disappointments


Butterflies have become so numb;
That they are no more impressed by the rainbow.
They can’t differ between the
Harsh oil marks on a pit of mud
And colorful pure rays of the sun.

Masks are everywhere,
Sutured to the depths of the soul;
Love has merely become a survival,
A competition between qualitative
And quantitative analysis.

Universe has made this poor soul
To the absolute end of its patience;
Which teaches there is no end of it.
While I preferably chose to disappoint myself,
As the only thing I know is to love

Without choosing,
Whether it is light or dark.


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