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 of heart, and a king of spade.

A malicious smile grew on its face as if it had already won the race.

“Oh, dear lord!”, cried the lad with disgrace,

And unfolded his quick three ace,

And won a gamble whose fruits he just couldn’t embrace.

A sadistic triumph for him and his thoughts.

Even after being at peace, he knew this was tearing him piece by piece.

 

The same old game, the same old outcome,

And once again he sits there alone with his rum.

 I, looking at a young star that tried to light up the dark,

Had capitulated his journey of dreams on which he had embarked.

 

The path that he boarded with a bag pack of hope and trust,

A journey whose destination was meant to quench his thirst.

A destination where all the stars finally met the moon,

And he would grow into a virtuoso rather than being a loon.

 

So, once again as if in perpetuity,

The universe had a claimer.

But only with time, did he unearth the inescapable incongruity.

And fathoms the fact, “The grains aren’t always for the reaper.”

 

Was it him or me?

Who tried to flee?

Me via my pen,

He via his rum.

-Daksh