The puddle

The puddle

With care the puddle collected
Each fleck of light reflected

To build its' own floating towers
Those citadels of office, power

Held on to its' truth , as it believed
It's being, purpose, accepted as revealed

Until cruel wheels of a passing cycle, as fate
Rent asunder this illusion, at a speed, great rate

And every collected drop , window, brick, flew
Momentary spray , dissipated as gray in blue

And so it is with every momentary truth we hold true,
Until we realize change is our truth, anew

That we are not the identities, we build, reflect
But a little bit more, than these illusions, suspect.


--shubha