A Story of Despondency

frolicking about in a sort of daze,

he constantly says, “It is just a phase”,

day and night, he would wander

perpetrate one or another blunder,

shattering the vinyl valuable vase,

his heart’s shards, of crystal glass,

the moon rises up and descends down,

day light turns from yellow to brown,

each sparkling night, he would wake,

counting all his bones, he did break

through the wasteful words, he write,

for the future, he has lost his sight,

he has his highs and so many lows,

from his expression, nothing shows

of the punctures, within his chest,

which bleed framing a congealing crest,

he could at times, be seen with a smile,

his eyes wild, with the sheen of a senile,

or it is often when his face does give away

nothing, impassive lips, blue and grey,

he is unfamiliar, quite an anonymity,

he has no home, no abode, no city,

he carries on, kept on, keeping on,

forgotten time going and thus gone,

it is a story of despondency, true or untrue,

it is just a matter of one’s own view,

he is someone, or he was, or he will be,

I don’t know, cos’ that is his secret key

.

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Tagging it as the poem for 7 November for NaBloPoMo. Please do share your feedback and leave a link to one of your posts, which makes it easier for me to visit you.

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