I was thought for a hundred years , therefore am for a hundred years.

What if idea finds a sanctum in itself out of discontentment and happening and rotates in the space , shapeless , formless.. The conscious mind wanders within its magic , tries to show it to others, deciphers it , through a language , it tries to mortalize , capture , make it understandable, more general. Its very mesmerizing that , all of the words don't portray the soul of the idea ,except a FEW words .. few words just don't leave but keep on reminding us of what it once stood within. They contain something more than the message , because they themselves are the message,they are the skyline making a picturesque painting , the words , the towers , the  arches that stands , symbolizing , signifying .

When we write this essay explaining the gist of this very idea , the crux of explanation lies scattered all over the prose,like bits and pieces everywhere. Amidst of this aftermath of chaotic experience reminisce all the high points when you felt dramatic in the process of reading an essay, those are the points where, unknowingly, you lived the essay.

Now bring it to a scale of architecture (a form you live in), eclectic elements ,competing spaces, make a whole. but the wonders perish , even the ones once strong and stoic. not in a day but in a million glances. And in those glances they hold on ,  they hold on to their ideas of genesis which in the form of , maybe a wall , maybe a window that continues to live .

Hence, the words which once spoke the meaning , now epitaphises it. And now, everything is gone , we stare at the hollow picturesque of the tower and wonder, how the wonder became.

We make out innumerable expressions out of the remains , some very complex , some beyond. innumerable stories out of that which appears to be the only abstract left, from which probably 

" the language is gone and the meaning has become a question to the ones who care to shed a glance."

Poems and ruins are leftovers of itself, doesn't matter if we understand them or not. We see them like they were, before creation. They are dying as we are , crunching as we are , perishing as we are.

We see what was meant to be shown , yet some creationists among us wonder, question,  what would the full text , the complete picture might have been like , its ironical.

What i have just said , has a poem in bits and pieces , just give me some more TIME.

i am a ruin of myself

to kill a loner or to be killed by him?
out there was no one but me.
up here there's every one but me .
expecting changed men 
trapped amidst the frames of  childishness
my ego   my achievements   my persona    erected
though they move around , see around 
but talk to the gates 
while the antenna is silently moved to the next level
the image of one's who made us , bind us
had they whilst everything else touched a bit of my clay
d have stuck a bit of em on me 
i grow , as if under a veil
overnight they think
whilst they splash at the swamp they think i still am.

i dont shine , nor do i light up at dusk for them to be noticed ,
might be coz they vandalize me on my rough skin
or might be coz am i still 
under construction as i was.