The mangled self.

yet something not allow it to recline,

to get it stationed in comfortable posture,

feeling relaxed,

as if lying in stratosphere,

a lower layer,

a upper layer,to cuddle,

according to floating sensations,

The mangled self,

yet strutting ahead,

as if ,nothing happened,

the hurt,the guilt buried in troposphere,

with the support of deep rutted patterns,

with the confidence of better positioning,

It peeks from the porthole,

a sure triumph,

that triumph,

that would heal all wounds/scratches,

yet many times cycle repeats,

history has lessons,

that cant be learned,

in SO SHORT EXISTENCE.