Cradle

Industrial goods.
No thoughts are born but,
Creativity is picked from shelves, neatly arranged.
In presentations.
Experiences are closed in boxes.
Feelings are locked and smiles flow
Behind doors.

With humans, with robots
Days are gone. No new life, no new plant.
Leaves uncurl and shiver in AC.
The constant hum is the only disruption here.

I used to wonder how years go by. Now,
I see them go by. Seasons past, festivals past.
This rhythm feels strange yet known.
A fear so deep, I learnt to live with it.
But how does one outgrow?

Cradles of comfort horrify me.
Yet, I am deep in its clutches. So much so that
The thought makes me uncomfortable.
Isn’t life a circle that keeps chasing itself?
Where does this sense of dissatisfaction end?

~insight07

This is a part of a new writing challenge, where I write on prompts in alphabetical order. See you around for D!

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