Every time I opt to compromise,
I fail in front of my conscience,
Die a hundred suicides.
But they say compromise is a sign of love.
Love is the rose,
Thorns are its compromises.
I have no promises in debt,
But I yet do things in love,
Rather be loved than in love.
I build a wall of cognizance in my heart,
Very tall and fat.
To seduce my heart to the mathematics of life.
But my heart filled the cement of wall with life,
And painted love of compromises in my wall.
I did many things to be loved,
Awaited like February for its 29th.
It was all about closing an eye
To the embrasure of my cognizance.
With every compromise passing -
I move a mile away from my Self,
To comfort someone else's Self.
And I sail a fuelless machine ;
With crowded promises.
The compromises are infatuations in adulthood,
They seem so sacrificial but are soul drilling.
They finite the dreams!
They are promising for love life,
But like an antibiotic, not Ayurvedic!