Down below the lane he lived,
home alone, no family, no kid,
no conversations, no interactions,
floating in huge tides of emotions.
Face coloured with deep agony,
lost everything, joy or money.
Writes but what only he knows,
ain’t no sharing, ain’ t no caring,
got no friends, nor relatives,
heart wrapped with tremendous woes.
Sipping the dirty cup filled coffee,
painting up the papers gradually,
the dead old telephone kept beside,
spending his long hours lazily.
Days are dark, night even more dark,
seeking for the rainbow to arrive,
the full moon fails to focus upon him,
and bliss fails to thrive.
The Poignant Poet
