It must be logic,
For we hide carefully our aces.
It must be magic,
For even a thought can take us places.
It must be tragic,
For else why would people switch their stances?
It must be a mirror,
For a few change faces.
It must be an accomplishment,
For some deal with it in paces.
It must be a sieve,
For that’s how we treat our experiences.
It must be a choice,
For that’s why we tend to preferences.
It must be valuable,
For the not-wanting-to-die embraces.
It must be a puzzle,
For that’s how we mend our ways.
It must be a timestamp,
For otherwise why’d we spend those days?
Amidst the puny fights of ignorance,
Amongst the countless episodes of submissions,
And after all that’s there,
Life, sort of, makes sense.