Metrocious moods- views another

A new story always has its root deeply into the womb of a different story, each in a story woven into, on and upon eachother being part of the tree of life.

The tree of life, with all its myriad stories, apart from having odin's eye also has its unending knowledge across time and maybe beyond.

This story too brings about such stories found with incoherent transfusions, non logical jumps and complete lack of continuity. Since most are Street bound and limited to the cities for now.. these are Metrocious moods..

I was a parakeet, lost in a world of a strange mixture.. The trees grew out of shape, neither fruit bearing nor life breathing. Pigeons laid waste for as long as i could fly, yet not a fruit was found laden on the root nor on the barren ground.

After long last i found what was an actual tree, a kind i knew back from home..  Yet fruits of delicacy were all that were thrown at me gy creatures much bigger. Strangely though, we both found pleasure in looking and tryimg to converse with each other. They tried chatting me up, and i, for all their ignorance repeated what they said. 'Look, it repeats' they said. Hear, they are lost in finding a it than me i said to myself, repeating what was just told..

The fruits were sour, sweet at time, and all i had was a shadow of a home to live and fly under. Bound completely within the limits of living, i became what i was never meant to be.. A caged bird.

I was a bunch of flowers.. A hive collective consciousness that was there yet non existent. I lived at a alternative reality that was a completely different realm, a realm where nature ruled what was on and what was cool.. What was right and wrong, what was to be and what should not be.. Yet, everyone had freewill to pursue happiness and higher wisdom. But that's for a different story.. I was, a hive collectible..  A bunch of flowers lying on that road.  Many a foot passed by. A few decided to s eer clear of us , to let me brrate and live my entire life of a day, a few decided to be kings of the yore. Stomping on me for them to feel a thought of royalty. Only that never happened, I  was lain waste to a beautiful thing called vanity.

Two of the flowers found a different fate. One lent life to a person professing faith in the penultimate, the other professing a rather laborious lack of life in the absence of his d'amour. 

Yet, for all the prophecies and the time thought with a flower in hand over a picture , stumbled upon the road aside, I remained, to be born again the next day as flowers and savour the sweet Buzz of the bees above me than the face of a foot filled with vanity.. I was and still am ...breathing...


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