Monday, October 28, 2013

He: an ash-tray in astray.

He is the ashtray,
An ashtray in astray.
Burnt by smoke and ashes,
Fowl smelling,
He recollects the pieces,
Lives in the tempest,
And often burns himself,
Trying to pacify the strife inside
Stormy outside, whirlwind inside,
It’s the solo that he sings now,
A solo from opera long forgotten,
There is no Diva,
Neither is symphony to the melody
No melisma, no movements.
Its all he breathes,
Memories of the ensemble they lived,
Those happiness that came in paltry,
The Baton has been passed,
What was torrid has become frigid,
And seemingly, he has ceded to destiny
That is him, the way I see,
Living a mercurial life,
Either musing, or
Living lie of felicity,
Like an ashtray, in astray.

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