Like Dead, Like Living

Funny how the dead like to think like the living and the living like dead.
This poem is born when these two thoughts cross their paths.

I look around and see people have made new friends.
Set up new homes. The dust, worms, insects, roots.
What not. Everything new is a family now. 

I wonder if this is the new world or if had been the same since the beginning.

At times a thought crosses my mind.
Is it me or is it you writing these.
I take a deep breath. Cold air filling my pumped up lungs.
Makes me feel alive for a bit. Atleast that's what I pretend to think.

The blue skies were always blue while the black ones black.
It's just the perspective.
The way my heart sees and digests has changed.
Now, at times I see it from your eyes.
While at times I see it through mine.

It's a strange world now.
At times I can't even recognize it anymore.
The colors, the patterns, what not.
They are like art, yes, it's like a child is painting the world.
Who can fathom his thoughts.
Who can dare capture them and bottle them up.
Does it know any boundaries?

Oh the thoughts are bubbling inside my heart.
I wonder who would remember these.
Everyone's married to time.
It holds you by hand, making you move in circles on and on.
You will fall in love with her.
The beauty so charming, why wouldn't you fall for her.
It's like, she's everywhere with everyone.
People begin to go in circles.
People become circles.

Now, who has time for anyone.
The possessive heart knows not how to share the love with others.
Then how could anyone find time for others.
Even in grave, the love for time never ceases to exist.
The tomb is the new home. Rotting time the wife.
Everything else inside a big family.

I wonder how long a memory can remain alive after death.
How long can people remember a memory.
Or should I say how long before time makes one fall for her.