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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