Not in quantity
Of days,
But in quality of
Breaths in “awe”
Not in pilgrimage
Of flocks,
But in miracles of
Strangers’ smiles.
Not in flaky prophets
Or their twisted books,
But in conscience’s trial-and-error,
Which reluctantly looks.
Not in hollow-trophy of
Lust pursuits or conquests,
But in guilt-ridden
Scars of chasing-ghosts.
Not in mortality of
Standing tall,
But immortality-lessons of
Falling down.
Not in mayhem and chaos
Masking decadence,
But in solitude,
Embracing magical silence.