Rising smoke.

This is something I randomly scribbled in my work diary, while travelling, and utterly bored. One of those days when a story gets formed in your head, and when the thoughts just flows, and sadness creeps in for an autonomous person, so deep, you need to pen it down.  

Are you the same person you pretended to be?

When we first met,

in a hoard full of strangers,

under clouds of uncertainty,

breathing the air of mystery,

taking in the warmth of the half hidden smiles.

Or did you pretend at all?

You were sane then,

through crazily in love

but sane, senile

and living. 

Are we the same?

Not anymore.

You seem to be lost,

in the haze of smoke,

that your doubts so release. 

Why do you lose yourself,

in the ten grams of smoking bliss?

Don't you see,

That heaven is right here, in actuality,

in reality, in sadness,

the heaven is here.

Why do you lose yourself,

in the ten grams of smoking bliss?

Don't you feel the life amiss?

Ah! You think you're happy now,

if only, I sigh!

You're numb,

from the care,

from sadness,

from reality,

from heaven.

And you believe happiness lies there.

How sad has the world come to be,

how sad!