Boxes of desires rotting
in the dusty corners of the heart,
silently withering
under the load of odd everyday jobs.
Occasionally they raise their heads,
every once in a while,
like ripe buds, ready to blossom,
but mercilessly we nip them.
Right there, right then.
Asking them to wait,
for the most opportune moment.
And like the abstract mirage of the desert,
that befitting twinkling keeps eluding us.
Boxes of desire keep piling,
one above the other.
Eventually, at the eventide of life,
they glare at us,
our bucket lists, nullified, neutralized.
No voice, no echo, no timbre, no influence.
Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook :100 words : Boxes
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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.