It flows only when one is full.
It’s flight is high as that of a gull.
When so it is,
We see only blues up and under.
And failing always to see its wonder.

It just stems up from a void.
About which we’re scared and do avoid.
An immaterial feeling,
Which forces us to lose our selfishness.
And soothes our self with bountiful richness.

Free from clutches, it remains unconditional.
And so, to many, it still is devotional.
Few are those,
Who turn it into a daily affair
And wail to see a system which is beyond repair.

It always tingles one’s heart, unbidden.
May be so, it is considered as forbidden.
A metaphysical force,
Which is serene and always spiritual.
If we don’t look it as life’s ritual.

We always talk of it, using a simile
While it silently entraps us in its family
An enigma this is,
Which never lets true feelings to confess.
And keeps haunting when we suppress.

Only in this, we search for that somebody
Odd it is, that we’re ready to be nobody
An orientation this is,
While it’s happening is so absurd
Only here, the Observer becomes the Observed.