I hear endless noise
From the stranger that whispers
In the dark
Save a name
He wrote on a pack
His long nails could be felt
As he wrote on a scratch
Skeleton by skeleton
The movement rose a flight
The muscles march on like some rats
On street fight
Hey there! Give me some cigarette
To light the heart
I hear the movements of the waiter
Pass the light
Pitiful tongues lash on his back
The enemies of the night
Took their first bite
The moustache hurry on with delight
None worries and a wooden jar
Like a weather storm with a broken heart
I could sense, the grief in his smile
The homelessness in his thoughts
The loneliness of the cold heart
I could sense it all
From a thousand miles
I could sense it all
if I woke up from the darkest town
The cloud could witness, mine
Was the part I’d suggest a rest
He wrote on, wrote on
Till the rivers flood, the eyes shut
And the song was indecisively burnt
I hear the pen drop
The saliva stopped
And the man moved on
Like it never was dark
From the scratch, I held my hand
And my night was buried
In his heart
He happened to be a writer
That was just passing by
MO.
Image courtesy: shutterstock.com
Yes. A writer’s life!
LikeLike
Thank you.
LikeLike