He felt
lonely, he felt insecure –
His was a
disease with no cure,
He liked intensely
He loved fervently
And he felt devotedly,
Still he thought he was no-happy
And others were far too happy...
(He counted only times unhappy)
He stood reclining on the veranda wall –
He sat neck
bent, head cavernal –
And tears escaped his eyes
In protest of a thousand lies,
His voice hoarse – he tried to speak
Solemn he sang, expression sick;
Mind passionate, he tried to write
But his mind recounted each fight,
He looked about, he swayed legs –
His thought witnessed some gags,
Still, out came words burning sentiently
Understanding himself, goal trenchently
Self-centred existence – jealous core
Materially no, spiritually more
Presented a filthy feel
Still, can’t desperate one to kill.
And, He would continue –
For his was life was new
A fresh drop of dew,
He
would continue....
No comments:
Post a Comment