forlorn The breeze carried a sound, Something it trying to say, Something it trying to mound, But none of it for sure was gay. A faint expression on his face, Scuffling somewhere with his life’s lace. His quandaries were pale, Yet, his vessel wasn’t able to sail. He stood up from his chair, Gazing into the offing, Catechizing,” Is life always fair?” Crusades of answers was he expecting? I stood there, while he was lost in his somewhere, Pondering and observing this poor whippersnapper, For whom, this labour of life was too much to bear. He sunk back in his chair, lost once again in the oblivious blank stare. Was it the breeze or were it his thoughts? Anyway, they both were playing a gamble of some sort. The breeze had its warmth at stake, The lad had his peace at stake. As and when the cards unfolded, The wilderness of his life engorged. The wind had a queen of club, an eight ...