Banters

As is the wont of banters,

There lies a feigned jocularity,

A truth lurked in the unspoken,

Jostling every word before its egress,

Choosing to stay behind,

Till the time apt..

As is the wont of banters,

The truth does slip now and then,

At the height of lightness,

Mired into the nonsensical verses,

Choosing to remain behind,

Till the time apt..

As is the wont of banters,

In a state between volition and spontaneity,

The truth is finally in the open,

Not received with shock,

Not evincing surprise,

Like the venial stone hitting a layer of water,

Creating ripples as it drowns in the depths,

Its wake slowly and steadily sends home the point..

And in one such moment,

He walked it out,

The blanket of friendship,

And what lay beneath,

Changing something,

Between them,

Forever..

What is it then..

Real,

Everything that I have now,

Could-be-real,

Everything that I look forward to,

What is it then,

That went past,

That stayed behind,

Choosing so..

Mirage I call,

What I see ahead,

What is it then,

That I left behind,

Choosing so,

Or maybe not..

Encumbered with the present,

Lurching forward,

What is it then,

That I carry from the past,

Choosing so?

Certainly not..

Gamut of answers,

To each of the queries,

Individualised,

Yet the summing up,

Is very similar,

Verisimilar,

Illusion.

...

Never shone,

My boots,

And never under a single sun,

Blanketing grime,

Sprinkling dirt,

Trade I do, in ton..

Where its heel and mine abut,

Reality begins,

My rise and my fall,

Can be just that distance,

And nothing more..

By and large,

In mine, I walk,

But when large,

Within mine, I walk,

Till I tire,

And exhaust my wit,

Till they shrink in mercy,

And fit..

Through the million miles,

Imprint I may not leave,

But carry I do,

Soil from each,

And yet with room,

For the next lap too..

Never shone,

My boots,

And never under a single sun,

And When they do,

Is when I shall rest,

Dustily shining,

In all my worth..

In the argument,
Of its existence,
I side with the for,
Illusions they are not,
Hallucinate, I do not,
But never ask me,
If I see the near, or the far..
Visual pathway of mine,
Is but quite intact,
Hence valid is my witness..
I see it true,
But describe I cannot,
cos Its got the dimensions of self..

Thoughts cram,
And accrue,
And d sight of definiteness lost?
Or just plain blank mind,
Leading to a vision
Of void too vast?

When do I see,
And why?
Where do I look,
Into what do I glide?
Aeons it lasts,
Or trice?
Asinine I become,
Or wise?

Is it worth
The above rumination,
Or is it just plain insipidness,
This moment,
Of looking into,
Nothingness.. ?