Words flow like a discarded, forgotten stream,
slow but gradual,
diminished in its vigour but there, always there;
as long as one cares to look.
The lamp struggles but slowly burns
casts light, though the shadows appear more bigger.
The light never dies, but the seekers have long lost their way.
Who does the light guide now?
Dreams are like puzzles
you solve one and you are rewarded with another.
Life is like the one you can never solve,
you keep going back to it again and again
only to realise you will never understand how to
perfectly put all the pieces back together.