In the Life

the day was harsh in reminding of eternal imprisonment (as the gates closed to my cage) … to tortured senses & a burning heart - how i could end for Lack of Luck. for once was done with modest keep ( in a cell-held putridness were but assets of a pathetic man: in one corner, a dirty, moldy rag where I slept. scattered about, bits of papers, a pen for passing the time. in the middle, a rusty water can for the rainy weathers & running along the walls - a glorified tap when the rains deserted me - a pipe in corruption) the damn life if only I yet deserved! having spent all: the rough twenty years as should ever be allowed of such a man. like i wasn’t penitent enough! the cry equally ignored as the hunger in my eyes. and in such moments after some others left - barely worthy, was obvious that i was fated by my very own Lack of Luck, my great crime without appeal. today i tried to relax but pessimism invaded every aspect of my being & i died slowly within, seeking whatever pride was left in that cell - my hell on earth, as a guard fed me stories from the outside, vowing to forever keep in here my words. how i was condemned for Lack of Luck.