This poem has a long way to go.
Before it reaches its destination, I fear its risk of being assassinated en route.
There are so many hurdles and rocks littered both in the air and on the surface, ready to launch an offensive against it.
How do I make it reach its destination: unharmed, unseen, unheard?
How do I whack the hurdles with a nonexistent magical broom?
How do I smash the rocks to smithereens?
Equipped with no weaponry, this poem and I wonder how alluring the destination would look, how soothing the air that surrounds the place, how soul-satisfying the panorama as we sit on the top and take delight in our endless chatter – no hopes, no fears, no expectations!
The writer enjoys seclusion and surfs the web. Always. Feedback at [email protected]

Faizaan Bashir