Plenty

Plenty is what brain demands Plenty is what the heart wishes Plenty is what the self conspires Plenty is what the world constructs We age, we break, we wither away But still walk, hoping to sprint Not knowing where it ends Not knowing where we belong For a million may mean zero And everything may be elusive It whispers hope when you sleep Wake up and you are killed Like a line in the golden sand Washed away by the tiniest tide Demands are never enough Wishes are always waitlisted You conspire without constructing And the world just laughs it away.