Washed Dreams

From little dreams I look towards a golden destiny

Dreams; which I know will never be fulfilled

Watching round me a class of people

With possibly no dream at  all

But yet carving their destiny

Writing their fate with golden pen carrying luminious ink

I find this rather odd, so as to why its always me

Always me to be left out

I try to dwell under misconceptions

Fighting hard my deceptions

Yet no where near I will be seen

Soon when I will be drown

On mountains I see the others revelling in winters

There the winds are too silent

That they never even strike kirk’s gong

I on contrast travell the valley long

To a place where no one tries

No one tries to find me till long

Author's Note

any comment appreciated