This body is like a frame Our souls are the paintings Like the one we see In the art gallery,
The frames are usually made of glass, wood, or maybe cheap plastic Yet handling the soul made of soil With depth of honey and Burning sensation of coal.
our soul fights everyday to come out of the frame, almost everyday to scream and breath and lie down on the green grass of our lawn and gaze at the open sky, Only to realise, Maybe the frame is not just a frame but a maze of karmic connections.
There are endless reasons for us to remain in the maze Yet we need just one to be out of this world...
Eventually the body is yet again just a frame within the frame.