13 Mayhem Street

A few meters from me is a man on the breadline; secluded; a beggar— with his cluttered suit and long parched hair— add to that a greasy hand beseeching silvers from the people wryly staring at him (at the life he didn’t choose) as they pass by; but no one seemed to mind. At the other flank of the street is a soul— murdered; guillotined; a victim— amid her blood-smeared gown she has been sauntering back and forth: pleading for justice (and perhaps searching for her head); but how could people help out, they couldn’t notice her. Above me is a bird— homeless; ravenous; a sufferer of men’s egotistical doings. Now he has nowhere to go— no trees to put up a nest; (and possibly, no bird of the same feather); and a breeze of infected air— all because no one seemed to care. As the day turned into night— uplifted; inspired; a noble man I became, by these enormous stories I witnessed that only few are able to see.