A third person in a world of two,
You witness the story unfold,
You witness the things said,
And the things too,
That has been left to be sensed.
You see the love, the happiness,
You see the wounds, the scratches,
You see the gaps too in dreams and souls,
You see what has been shown,
And that, which was has been left
To be felt in a land unknown.
You see the world that was created,
A world morphing into another...
You see the jigsaw slots fitting in
And those that could have fit,
If not for that unfitting stray bit,
Waiting to be cleared off
But stays on,
Seemingly invisible enough,
To be lifted off.
You witness the hands
That reached out,
And those too that stretched,
But had shackles on
That no one knew about.
You witness the world that was shown,
The one, that once under the sun shone,
You feel the one too, which existed
On the eclipsed phase,
Or dark end of moon.
You crave, you long, you pray,
"If only... " is all you can say...
But are you just the 3rd person,
With no more role,
But to observe,
Or is there more to it,
Perhaps any other purpose to serve?
Can it be an untold notion,
To let you know of the stray pieces,
That may have been in motion
In the world where you exist,
And your puzzle pieces too,
Have been trying to resist?
Are you the third person
In that universe unknown,
Or is that universe
Just another piece
To let you explore
The unseen in your own (universe)?
Letting you to make sense
Of what has been left
To be sensed, seen, heard, or felt...
To water the flowers,
That might seem parched,
Even if some parts have been drenched,
The others might need to be watched?
That universe might have been an assisting piece
For the universe of your version,
To let your senses bloom,
And thrive in the world,
Where you have always been
The first person.
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