The Storm with In....!

He was writing a trillion times over and over again
in the withered pages of his memory
"I love life"
"I love life"
.
.
.
Not knowing that this desire has no end in itself,
he would continue to write not knowing that life
is that grain of sand flowing down in the glass clock
with the constant pull of desire.
His mind creates this bubble of soap, in which he floats,
seeing world through it's sensual refraction.
Afraid he is, of the truth, that will strike as a lighting
on his fragile bubble, breaking his deluded vision.
He was a puppet, puppet in the bowl of glass
smiling all the time to those who wanted to look through him.
Beneath the smile, little did he know what he was
conspiring, conspiring with the pain inside him.
Why did he smile ?
cause he wanted to be happy,
Happy like every other mortal around him.
They all had lives, lives which he never understood,
which had no misery in them.
He always wanted to be a part of it, a part of the party
which looked so happy.
He was afraid to be left alone, left alone in the chilly winds
outside, little did he know, about the serenity in the eye of the
tornado.
He read, read a lot of men, who seem to be telling him a
different story, story that he didn't like, cause the characters
in them where not what he would call "Happy"
He judged, judged the writer by the words he wrote
little did he know, the writer was lying.