Living Well

This could only mean living well,
It missed its mark, my hand cut a trail
That was in the ocean of regrets,
This feeling eventually nauseated me.

What beautiful land! The home of sleep and air,
A busy park so well-trod by the gentry;
Emotions worked like water from a tap,
This expedition was on boots and shoes.

These people on land were very close to me,
Like clothes afterwards, on slippers and shoes.
The real me asked from the prayers why we walk.
When is the middle road taken? How long do we stay?

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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