a basket and a backpack

there was a bag of grief lying around-  sturdy rough like those backpack types,

always packed to be carried away,

there was also a basket of  joy nearby- really beautiful though a bit fragile

and  with a handle per se.

 

i stood standing staring at both,

wait-but why was it difficult to choose ?

i would reach for the basket but would end up with the backpack

perhaps now you understand my ordeal, my difficulty,  my inability to choose.

 

it was dark and cloudy, keeping all light at bay,

so i reached for the torch that lay hid beneath,

not the sofa, or the table or that  bed I so hate,

but the one that is always lit within, The Soul as they all say.

 

so now I held up the basket and  marvelled at it,

while I sipped my coke and went through that novel

Just then a gust of wind passes through my way,

tearing through my fragile basket , lighting out my light and loading me with the backpack again .

 

Staring at those shattered pieces,

With no light and no voices,

i picked them up , only to put them in the furnace

where i would strengthen and forge them to build a bigger and a stronger basket !

 

Oh and only if you ask where i managed to get the fire,

I have only this to say- i found it in the ashes of the light that burnt way back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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