Strands of Belief
We pluck fluffy balls of cotton from so many different plants, Having no idea, which would end up in towels, mops, and pants, But every tuft itself, shorn of identity, has no consequence to dread, Caring even less, that many
Cloudburst
How often do you notice the death of a single dream, Seeing the last drop dry up from its parched stream, But you don’t really mind, pronouncing not even a tiny scream, As if having anticipated they were all meant