Clumsy me

Clumsy me,
never thought that
the life could take
such a discourse
such a dip
such a diabolical turn.

Between the hinges of
acting or not-acting,
what is inside the
so-called life;
is it a metaphor,
is it an illusion,
is it humble submission to the eternity?

Sprout, but
not cluttered in
utmost thought,
perhaps, someone
is pulling the string
from behind the curtain.

Hence,
everything and all other things
are in vain-
is it perpetuality? perpetual
is it hypocrisy?
is it pretendance? pretending
is it
never be able to distinguish-

Clumsy me!